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"John,” said Gilbert, wheeling round suddenly, and gazing into the 
shadows out of which shone his boy's big gray eves, “ do you want to 
go 1’’ — Page 34. 



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Boyhood of John Kent 


BY ^ 

WILLIS BOYD ALLEN 


Author of “ Tk^. Pine Cone Stories," “ Christmas at Surf Point" “ The 
Red Mountain of Alaska" “ The Lion City of Africa" etc. 



BOSTON AND CHICAGO 

©Dtxgregattonal ^unHags^cfiool anti ^utilisfjtng ^ocutg 



Copyright, 1891, 

By Congregational Sunday-School and Publishing Society. 


TO 


a^P father, 

WitI) deepest (iratitade, Respect, and 
lyove, 

I offer tl)i3 SodI^. 


'L. / 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER page 

I. Father and Son 7 

II. The Hole in the Wall 22 

III. Dorothy 38 

IV. At Home 50 

V. Old Friends 62 

VI. Justice -. . . 78 

VII. An Ugly Stranger 87 

VIII. Midnight 103 

IX. Thomas Wilson’s New Job 113 

X. A Visit to Lady Courtley 133 

XI. The Glorious Fourth 145 

XII. Through a Knot-hole 165 

XHI. At Sea 178 

XIV. To THE Rescue 196 

XV. The North Star 209 

XVI. A Song in the Night 225 

XVII. The Cathedral 234 

XVIII. Mr. Pettingill’s Good News .... 247 

XIX. The Hidden Chamber 267 

XX. At the Ends of the Earth . . . , . 280 

XXL A Dangerous Fisherman 299 

XXII. Winter 305 

XXIII. July Second 318 

XXIV. The New Doctor 329 

XXV. A Memory 336 

XXVI. The Yellow Day 348 

XXVI I . Morning 358 

XXVIII. Conclusion 364 


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THE 


Boyhood of John Kent. 


CHAPTER I. 

FATHER AND SON. 

a certain winter night, when the darkness 
all around was as black and soft as velvet, 
and not a star shone in its folds ; when the north- 
east wind blew steadily and drove myriads of tiny, 
crystallized snowflakes before it so swiftly that 
they seemed never to reach the earth at all, but 
just to whiz past, and off into the sky again ; 
when the air was bitter cold, and even the snow 
on the ground looked warm, as one thought of 
the small leaved plants, the spiders and beetles 
and ants it sheltered, lying snug and close in 
their tiny homes, — on this winter night, just 
after midnight, John Kent stood before a blazing 
fire, built in the edge of a pine forest, and tried 
to warm his small hands over the restless red 


7 


8 


The Boyhood of John Kent. 


flame that would blow in exactly the wrong 
direction, and either puff smoke in his face or 
roar away toward the tall, silent trunks of the 
pines, as if its whole duty were to warm them 
instead of the shivering, half-benumbed boy on 
the other side. 

“ Poor little fellow ! What will he do without 
a mother.?” 

Those were the first words that John could 
ever remember in his life. He never forgot 
them. 

“ How old are ye, bub .? ” asked the same voice, 
in tones so full of sympathy, rough and harsh 
though they were, that John really began to 
think that something was the matter. 

“Five, sir; ’most six,” said he, his lip trem- 
bling, as he looked up into the face bending 
over him. 

“Poor little chap,” repeated the voice. Then 
there was a whispered consultation, the first 
speaker’s bright buttons gleaming in the fire- 
light as he held his hand absent-mindedly over 
the fire. 

“Yer father’ll be along soon. He built the 
fire fer ye, did n’t he .? ” 

“Yes, sir ; he told me to stay right here.” 


y' 


Father and Son. 


9 


John was trying hard not to cry. He was con- 
scious of a great longing for his father to come. 
Indeed, he placed nearly all his wants, at that time 
of his life, in one class. Every need resolved itself 
somehow into a temporary lack of father. If he 
were cold (as he was now, very) he felt vaguely 
that father meant warmth ; when he was hungry 
for food, he got the feeling all mixed up with 
hunger for father ; to be without father was his 
unexpressed definition, somewhere in the sweet, 
morning mistiness of his waking child-ideas, of 
death. 

What had happened that afternoon and even- 
ing, before the words of the kind-hearted brake- 
man fell on his ears, he could not remember. 
When he was old enough to understand, a few 
years later, he was told that he had been travel- 
ing from the old farm-home toward the city with 
his father and mother. Why they left the pretty 
trees and cows and snowbirds to go to a place 
all stones and bricks, he could not fully make out 
till he was older still; for what should he know 
of debts and mortgages, of poor crops, foreclosures 
and auctions 

At any rate, there they were, they three — the 
whole family — rattling along through a white 


lo The Boyhood of John Kent. 

world, with blots of dark woods beside them, 
and booms of hollow bridges beneath them, on 
and on, until it was dark, and the pleasant brake- 
man had come through the car, lighting the 
lamps, and telling of the big snowdrifts they 
must go through. 

At about this time he had become very sleepy, 
and, laying his head in his father’s lap, had for- 
gotten all the little remembers he had — and they 
were very short ones — in sleep, when there had 
come a crash somewhere, a dull pounding under- 
neath the car, shaking him dreadfully, then 
another crash, in the midst of which the car 
tipped over, his mother disappeared, and he 
presently found himself, still in his father’s 
arms, lying in a most uncomfortable, upside- 
down way, with something heavy on his feet. 

It was very, very dark. Snowflakes blew in 
from the great, cold night and brushed his face. 

The something heavy was at length lifted from 
his feet ; lifted and carried tenderly away by men 
with lanterns. He could not see what it was, but 
he heard a groan burst from his father’s lips. 

His little hands were upon the man’s bearded 
face in a moment. 


“Does it hurt you, father?” 


Father and Son, 


II 


Mr. Kent only replied by kissing the hand in 
the darkness. He did not dare to move, as a por- 
tion of the car roof rested unevenly on the shat- 
tered edge of the seat just above him, and a 
touch or a sudden start might bring down the 
whole mass upon them. All around, people were 
crying and calling for help. 

As for John, he was not very much disturbed 
or uncomfortable. So long as his father’s arms 
were around him, things could not go very badly. 

Why did he not feel that way toward his 
mother, you ask.^ I am not sure; but I think she 
had not read the New Testament, or, what is still 
more necessary, practiced the Sermon on the 
Mount, enough to be a bit like God to her son. 
She was a good mother, as the world goes ; that 
is, she clothed and fed him, and put him to bed at 
night with a rather hasty and formal kiss. But 
she never came down into his world, to live for 
him, and with him, to suffer for him in his little 
punishments and sorrows, and to rejoice with him 
in his childish joys. It was his father who did 
this daily, and who was, to some extent, one with 
his boy, even as he himself tried to be one with 
his Master. 

The result was inevitable. The boy respected, 


12 The Boyhood of JoJm Kent 

and — yes, perhaps, loved his mother a little ; he 
lived in his father. 

The first thing Mr. Kent had done, on being 
freed from the wreck of the car, was to carry 
John in his arms to the edge of the pine woods, 
only a few steps from the track, and there, brush- 
ing aside the snow as well as he could, to build a 
fire. All this took but a minute or two, for he 
was perfectly at home in the woods. 

Then, bidding his son await his return, he went 
in search of his wife. He found the broken house 
she had lived in ; but she herself had gone. 

When he came back, his boy was standing 
sturdily at his post, like Casabianca of old ; save 
that our small John Kent was well along toward 
freezing instead of burning. 

“ My boy, my precious son ! ” was all his father 
said as he gathered him in his arms. 

There was something in the way these words 
were spoken, in the way the protecting arms 
came about him, that was new. There was the 
faintest possible accent of appeal for help, a grasp 
as that of a drowning man for a straw, that min- 
gled with the protection of fatherhood. And at 
the same moment there was born in the swelling 
breast of John Kent, aged five, a feeling of father- 


Father and Son. 


13 


hood toward his own father. As they clasped 
each other tight in the midst of the driving storm, 
with the darkness about them, and the groans of 
the dying in the air, they were more nearly one 
than ever before; and the child, as well as the 
man, felt the sweetness of giving comfort. 

There, I am glad to have gotten over the sad 
beginning of my story. It was better to tell you 
one that had the deepest shadows in the first 
chapter than in the last, was it not ? And you 
could not fully understand John Kent if I left 
out the record of that terrible night. 

I need not dwell on the rest of their journey : 
the wrecking train, the telegrams flashing reports 
of the accident all over the country, the slow 
progress of the cars with their freight of souls 
and bodies, the arrival in the city, and the lonely 
little funeral that had only one carriage after the 
hearse. Nor, indeed, would you be interested in 
the life of the two mourners during the next few 
years. 

Mr. Kent was a skillful carpenter, and was 
pretty sure of work whenever he chose to seek 
for it. He earned enough to pay for his own and 
his boy’s support in a cheap boarding-house ; and 
spent much of his time, in the intervals of his 


14 


The Boyhood of John Kent, 


steady jobs, over his books, which constituted 
almost his only possessions, beyond what he wore 
on his back. 

There was a carpenter’s shop down by the 
wharves, owned by a friend, who allowed him to 
put up a bench and keep his tools there for a 
trifling commission on the pay he received. This 
arrangement had been made soon after the arrival 
in Boston, and a small sign had appeared below 
the larger one : — 


GILBERT E. KENT. 
CARPENTER AND JOINER. 


It was John’s delight to visit this shop, and 
watch his father at his work. A conversation 
which took place when he was about nine years of 
age will give some idea of the relation between 
the two. 

Kent was at work on rather a delicate piece of 
joiner’s work, such as he loved best to do. John 
had been watching him intently from a special 
coigne of vantage which had been built for him, 
and which I will describe later. 

What are you building, father ? — a coffin ?” 



Father a7id Son. 


15 


Why, no, my boy,” said the man, startled and 
rather worried by such an unchildlike question. 

No, indeed ; it ’s a more cheerful job than 
that.” 

Why, father, when you were making one last 
week, I heard you tell Mr. Wilson, ^ What a great 
comfort it would be for the poor thing to get into 
it and have a good sleep ! ’ ” 

‘‘ Did I ? ” rejoined Gilbert hastily. Well, 
that was for a man who was old and had been 
sick a long time. He had what they call asthma, 
and could n’t sleep, except a little bit at a time in 
his chair.” 

But how could he lie down in his coffin, if he 
was dead, you know ” argued Kent Junior. 

** Bless me, child, I should n’t have said that,” 
said his father, dismayed. “ It ’s a foolish way 
folks have of speaking. Poor old Collins was 
really never in the coffin at all ; it was only his 
body.” 

Where was he, then } ” 

** With God, somewhere, my boy. In heaven, I 
trust.” 

John was silent for a while, pondering. When 
he spoke it was after a long breath of relief, which 
seemed to indicate that his mind was at rest con- 


1 6 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

cerning his asthmatic old neighbor. He wanted 
just one word more, to make assurance doubly sure. 

‘‘ It *s the same God we say, ‘Our Father’ to, 
is n’t it, sir } ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Oh, he ’s all right, then,” said John, dismiss- 
ing the subject contentedly. If old Mr. Collins 
were where his Father was, neither asthma nor 
sleeplessness could render his lot wholly bad. 
He had not yet learned that a man may be so 
warped and twisted by his sins that he won’t 
look up and see his Father standing by him. 
That is indeed “ outer darkness.” 

“ But you have n’t told me yet, father,” resumed 
John, having disposed of Mr. Collins satisfacto- 
rily, “ what you 're making.” 

“ It ’s a desk, my boy.” 

He was zipping off some sharp corners with an 
odd little plane. 

For Mr. Wilson .? ” 

Mr. Wilson was the owner of the shop. 

“ No, son ; for some rich people on Common- 
wealth Avenue.” 

“ Could n’t they buy one ” 

“ Not the kind they want. There is an old lady 
in the house, and she wanted a desk with a great 


Father and Son. 


17 


many little nooks and corners — secret drawers, 
and the like.” 

“ Won’t anybody know where they are ? ” 

“ No. She won’t tell anybody of them, and I 
promised not to.” 

** Not even to me ?” 

“ Not even to you.” 

But I can see you while you make them.” 

Oh, I don’t mind your looking on. You 
could n’t remember them.’ 

John slipped down from his perch, and dusted 
his little coat before going out-of-doors. 

‘‘I guess I won’t watch,” he said, ‘‘for I 
might remember, and then, you know, the old 
lady would be sorry.” 

All this was said in a quiet, deliberate way 
which John inherited from his father. He lifted 
his face to be kissed, before he turned to the 
door. 

“ Good-by, father.” 

“Good-by, little son.” 

So the days grew into months, and the months 
into years. John was never sent to a public 
school, but he had good teaching for all that. 
There was a silver-haired old lady in the same 
boarding-house, whose mind and spirit were as 


1 8 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

fresh and young as they had been at twenty. 
People do not grow old, I have to remind myself 
sometimes. They grow better or worse, but not 
older. The houses in which they live, which we 
call bodies, do indeed get loose-jointed and shaky 
and weather-beaten ; but the real You and the 
real I, inside, remain. In heaven, perhaps, we 
shall always look as we feel. We should hardly 
dare to risk it now. 

But how easily I stray from my story ! Mrs. 
Courtley was a lady of the old school. She was 
Scotch by birth, and now and then a word or 
phrase of her childhood would slip into- her fine 
English. She had been well educated, and could 
teach John to speak, read, and write his mother- 
tongue with true delicacy and force. As time 
hung heavy on her hands, she was glad to have 
the boy come to her room and learn at her knee, 
while to him such a visit was a rare treat. For 
that room was to him an Aladdin’s cave of won- 
ders ; and Lady Courtley, as the other boarders 
called her, half in fun and half from genuine 
respect, was never tired of telling marvelous sto- 
ries connected with her curiosities. Her young 
caller soon discovered, also, that his old friend 
loved to talk about their Father in heaven to 


Father and Son. 


19 


whose presence his mother and old Collins had 
gone. Lady Courtley was sometimes inclined to 
be shocked at the ideas of God entertained by 
both Gilbert Kent and his son ; but she would 
never be drawn into an argument on the subject. 
Nor, indeed, would Gilbert. 

For the rest, the boy was taught geography, 
mathematics, and natural history, by his father, 
who was passionately fond of all three studies. 

The two former he taught by objects and news- 
papers. He would let John add blocks, shingle 
nails, shavings, anything except figures. For 
geography, he would pick up a morning Herald, 
and read : — 

“ Special dispatch from London. It is reported 
that Livingstone is now near the head-waters of 
the Congo.” 

“Ah, John,” he would say, going to the closet 
which held his books, “ let ’s see if we can't find 
Livingstone. First, we '11 call at London' and see 
what they can tell us about him at the great news- 
paper offices.” 

The voyage across from Boston to Liverpool 
was carefully marked on the map, with attention 
to the larger bays, capes, and so on, on the way. 

“ Now we ’ll take a train to London, going 
through” — such and such large cities. 


20 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

Now rail to Dover, a funny, wheezy little 
steamer to Calais, rail to Paris, and — do you see ? 
— down to Marseilles.’' 

In this way the journey was carried on until 
Livingstone was successfully discovered ; and the 
whole lesson ended with an interview between 
that noted individual and the explorer, John usu- 
ally personating Livingstone, and his father the 
stranger. 

Then would come a talk about the animals 
and plants of Africa, interrupted occasionally by 
peals of laughter from the boy, who, neverthe- 
less, became far better informed than the aver- 
age schoolboy of his age concerning the Dark 
Continent. 

Nor were his physical condition and education 
neglected. Gilbert took care that his son should 
grow to be strong of lung and limb ; and many 
were the long walks they took together, out over 
the Cambridge bridges, or even to Roxbury and 
Dorchester — generally returning, hungry and 
happy, in a horse car. 

John was acquainted with every fellow of his 
age on the street where he lived. There were 
some pretty rough ones among the number ; but 
such was the boy’s constant sense of his father’s 


Father and Son. 


21 


presence that he would not speak nor listen to a 
word that would defile. His companions soon 
found that it was “ no use to tell little Kent 
a good story ” ; by which, queerly enough, they 
meant a bad one. 


CHAPTER 11. 


THE HOLE IN THE WALL. 

T eleven years, John Kent looked very much 



like other healthy, happy children of his 
age. His nearness to his father and friendship 
with Lady Courtley did not make him pale and thin 
or unnatural-seeming in any way. He had large, 
honest gray eyes, rather light brown hair, and was 
of sturdy build. It was a fleet-footed boy who 
could overtake him in a race, and once he had 
grappled with a big setter who was worrying a 
smaller dog. When the master of the setter 
came up, John was braced up rigidly, holding the 
larger animal tightly by the throat, in spite of 
his struggles. The little dog was nowhere to 
be seen. John let go his hold, and panted, quite 
breathless, while the man, who was a low-browed 
fellow, walked off scowling. John saw him turn 
savagely on the setter and kick him as they passed 
down the street. 

“I saw where the dog got his manners,” said 


The Hole in the Wall, 


23 


John, in telling the story to his father that after- 
noon, among the chips and shavings. ‘‘ So I 
did n’t blame him so much. I wish the little 
black-and-tan had thanked me though,” he added. 

Mr. Kent smiled over his plane as if he were 
reminded of some story ; but he only reached up 
and gave the boy a grave stroke on his moist, 
wavy hair. 

It was at about this time that a great event 
occurred in John’s life. He came home one even- 
ing from a long trip to Roxbury, where he had 
been sent to deliver a set of small shelves, which 
the people in the house were to put up them- 
selves. 

“O father,” said he, as they walked downstairs 
to supper together, the man’s arm around the boy 
— they always came down that way — “how jolly 
it would be if we lived in a little house of our 
own ! Could n’t you make one somewhere } ” 

“ What put that into your head, my son } ” 

“ I don’t know, sir. Perhaps it was the house 
where I left the shelves. There were only three 
or four people living in it, I am sure ; and there 
was a little girl about my age kneeling in a chair 
at the front window, ‘looking for papa,’ she said.” 

“ Well^ can’t you look for me here ? ” 


24 


The Boyhood of John Kent. 


They had entered the close, ill-ventilated sup- 
per room, and. were now seated side by side. 
Everybody else had eaten supper, so they had the 
room and untidy table to themselves. 

“ Oh, but it ’s different here. There ’s so many 
people — and — and it isn’t very clean, is it, 
father .? ” 

“You know we are poor, Johnnie. I wish I 
had a better home for you.” 

“ Does it cost more to live in your own house, 
father } ” 

“ Not when you are once in ; but how are you 
going to get the house ? ” 

“ Why, build it, of course ! ” 

Mr. Kent shook his head. 

“The land costs too much,” he said quietly. 
“ But I ’ll think over what you have said, my boy. 
Perhaps something will come out of it.” 

John was satisfied that when his father began 
to “think over” a thing, it was as good as done. 
So he went to bed happy. 

He had not outgrown his old habit. The long- 
ing that is hidden somewhere in every one of 
God’s children, the longing for home, had sprung 
up in his heart. To him, home meant simply 
father. And a house where he could only speak 


The Hole in the Wall. 


25 


to him now and then, or press his hand slyly 
under the table ; where other people jostled rudely 
against one another and him, as they went in and 
out ; where they even shared their room at night 
with a third inmate, a weak and inoffensive enough 
young man, who was employed in a canning 
establishment in East Boston, but who stood be- 
tween John and communion with his father like 
the angel wijth the flaming sword in the gate of 
Paradise, — this was but a mockery of home. 

He was too shy to tell his father all this ; per- 
haps he could hardly have put it into words ; and 
so he had never voiced his growing longings until 
the sight of the sweet family life that afternoon 
had urged him to speak. 

What dreams he had that night ! Visions of 
his father walking with him hand in hand, or 
sitting by their own fireside reading and talking 
of an evening. He woke up when the weak 
young man came in late from an evening at the 
‘‘ Howard,” but immediately went to sleep again 
and began dreaming where he had left off. 

The next day he laid the whole matter before 
Lady Courtley. She gave a little sigh as he 
prattled eagerly of his new plans, and took her 
glasses from her kind old eyes to wipe from 


26 


The Boyhood of John Kent, 


them a sudden moisture that had gathered there. 
Where was her home ^ God had kept her out 
of it all her life ; perhaps as fathers and mothers 
keep their children from the bright parlor decked 
for Christmas Eve, to give them all the more 
glad surprise when they shall at last enter. 

“You’ll let me come and see you sometimes, 
won’t you, John 

“I guess I will! You must come every week 
— or every day,” he added hastily, afraid he had 
not been cordial enough. 

Lady Courtley laughed in her merry way. 

“Once a week would do, I think, my bairn. 
But where is your house to be ? ” 

“ Oh, father ’s thinking it over, ma’am. We 
don’t know yet where it will be. Perhaps — we 
won’t go, just yet. But I guess we will.” 

His face, which had drooped a little at the 
thought, brightened again. The lady patted the 
brown head. 

“Don’t forget your auld friends, John, in the 
midst of the new. I doubt ye ’ll find many 
where you ’re going.” 

Lessons occupied the forenoon. At four o’clock 
came the grand treat of the day — the trip to his 
father’s shop, from which, an hour or two later, 


The Hole in the Wall. 


27 


the two would emerge and walk back to the 
boarding-house together. During the interven- 
ing time John would sit on his odd perch and 
watch plane and saw and bit as they glittered 
through the yellow wood, driven by a skillful 
and steady hand. 

It is time I told you about that perch. When 
Gilbert first entered the shop, on his arrival from 
Maine, and after the completion of his arrange- 
ments with Mr. Wilson (who was a distant con- 
nection), he had at once noticed, in the corner 
farthest from the street, a sort of open cupboard 
in the wall, close to the ceiling. 

What in the world is that for, ’way up out of 
reach ” he had asked. 

Oh, that was made by the former owner,” Mr. 
Wilson said. ‘‘ He had intended to run his lathe 
by machinery, and the hole was to carry a belt 
from a machine shop next door.” 

Before he had completed his arrangements the 
machinist had failed, and an old junk dealer had 
taken his place. The passageway had been 
blocked up at the further end, but as the two 
buildings, being out of the great currents of 
city business, were of wood and about five feet 
apart, there remained the cupboard-shaped nest. 


28 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

which Wilson had never taken the trouble to 
close. From time to time he had thrown odd 
bits of wood up there, but he confessed he never 
expected to climb up after them. 

Gilbert had thought no more of it at the time ; 
but when, a few days later, John had accompanied , 
him to the shop and, in spite of every effort to the 
contrary, would keep getting in the way, his eye 
fell for the second time upon the useless cup- 
board. 

“John,” said he, “when you come next time 
I ’ll have a nest ready for you, where you can 
stay and look down on us, without getting under 
foot.” 

John took the hint and left. 

Two days later, by special invitation, the boy 
once more appeared at the shop. 

“ Now, sir,” said his father, pointing to the dark 
corner, “ up with you.” 

John (then only six years old) rebelled in his 
secret heart, and his flesh actually crept with fear 
at the thought of rats and other terrible creatures 
which might be lurking in that gloomy little cave. 

But he never thought of refusing or drawing 
back for even a moment. 

Without hesitation he marched over to the 


The Hole in the Wall. 


29 

corner, and looked about for some means to 
get up. 

Presently he spied a block of wood nailed firmly 
to the wall ; it looked as if it might hold. He 
tried it, catching another with his hand. Then 
he saw another and another. Up he went, his 
heart sinking as fast as his body rose. The 
whole distance was perhaps seven feet from the 
floor ; it seemed as high as a church spire. 

When he reached the last block, he found a 
semi-circular shelf, like a little platform before the 
door of a bird house. It was stoutly propped 
below by iron braces. Upon this he threw him- 
self, panting, face down. 

Then, oh, lovely sight ! As he peered over the 
edge, there was his father looking up at him 
proudly and delightedly, his brown beard almost 
touching him, his hands already reaching up to 
grasp his own. He saw at once that his father 
had been there all the time, to catch him if he 
fell. It did not occur to him for years, I think, 
that the same father had nailed the blocks to the 
wall beforehand for him to mount by. 

Having gained a vast reinforcement of courage 
from the bearded face, and smiled down into it, 
and given the two knotted hands a stroke, John 


30 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

turned to the wooden cave behind him. He 
wanted very much to go in feet first, but con- 
cluded that that would not be brave, so he went 
the other way. Presently his head came bump 
against the drum-head of boards which were the 
inside limit of his den. 

Once accustomed to the darkness, he found 
there was a perfect nest of pine and cedar 
shavings beneath him, together with something 
soft, which proved, to his delight, to be a ragged 
old coat of his father’s. 

He backed out of his woodpecker’s hole in high 
glee; laughed, this time to his father, and then 
dove in again. The cupboard was about two feet 
in width, and this time he tried and succeeded 
in wriggling round, while he was in the dark, and 
emerging head foremost. 

Gilbert had already returned to his work. 

“ Don’t fall, son ! ” he called out, above the 
noise of the tools. “ Be very careful and you will 
be safe. Are you warm ? ” It was early spring. 

‘‘Yes, father.” 

“ Are you afraid ? ” 

“No, father.” 

He nestled a while among his shavings, playing 
he was a gray mouse in the wainscoting ; then he 
thought he would try the descent alone. 


The Hole in the Wall. 


3t 

Gilbert’s back was towards him ; Mr. Wilson 
had stepped out to talk with a teamster ; no one 
was looking. 

He turned round, and let himself down over 
the edge of his shelf, feeling for the first step 
with his foot. This he reached safely ; but the 
next moment his smooth-soled little boot slipped, 
and he fell, with a cry of terror. 

A fraction of an instant of such agony of 
fright as he had never known, and he found him- 
self — in his father’s arms. Gilbert had turned 
and run across the shop just in time to catch 
and save him. 

I have heard John say, years afterward, that he 
never reads the eleventh and the twelfth verses of 
the Ninety-first Psalm, without a vivid recollection 
of the bliss of that moment when he felt those 
firm, gentle arms underneath. 

He did not visit his nest again that afternoon, 
but the next day he came and went up and down 
several times safely ; and thereafter it was his 
delight to lie at full length on the shavings, with 
his elbows on his shelf and his cheeks on his 
hands, looking down into the shop, and sometimes 
joining in the conversation, sometimes remaining 
silent for an hour at a time. When any visitor 


32 The Boyhood of John Kent 

came, into the shop the boy generally drew back 
out of sight, only to emerge when the door, with 
its tinkling bell, had announced the stranger’s 
departure. 

I have gone a long way back in my story to 
tell you about John’s mouse-nest in the wall. 
On the afternoon after hi? talk about moving 
with Lady Courtley, he hurried down to the shop, 
and clambered up to his shelf as usuaL 

The two men were talking, as he came in, on 
the very subject with which his mind was filled. 

“You can have it as well as not, if you want 
it,” Mr. Wilson was saying. 

They were so used to having John’s two eyes 
and ears intent upon them as they talked, that 
they went on as if he were not there. 

John threw down a block of wood with a clatter 
on the floor, so as to make sure they knew he was 
in the shop ; then listened eagerly. 

“ How far is it from here } ” 

“About ten minutes’ walk. The only trouble 
is, it ’s so full of cobwebs and dust ” — 

“ Never mind that,” said Kent, smiling. “ Have 
you spoken to your wife about it } ” 

“Yes. She’s willing, and she’ll be glad to 
take you and John. You won’t mind our all 
eating together ? ” 


The Hole in the Wall. 


33 


“No, indeed ! ” rejoined the other warmly. 

“ Are you sure that the owners of the property 
would consent to moving their goods out of the 
rooms ? ” 

“ Consent } They ’re goin’ to do it, anyway. 
Now look here, Gilbert Kent : here ’s just the way 
the case stands. That end of the old house is just 
goin’ to ruin because there ’s nobody livin’ in it ; 
an empty house allers wears out faster ’n one that ’s 
occupied, don’t it ” 

Kent nodded. Two gray eyes, from the hole in 
the wall, looked eagerly from one face to the other. 

“ Very well. Now the rooms are about half- 
filled, at the present time, with old second-hand 
furniture and stuff belonging to two owners. It ’s 
a part of the ‘ estate,’ and I pay my rent for one- 
half of the house to the agent, Stevenson. He 
says to me, the last time he was there, ‘Wilson,’ 
says he, ‘ I wish there was another tenant in that 
old rat trap down by the wharves.’ ‘ So do 1/ says 
I, ‘ though I make bold to say it ain’t no rat trap, 
in which case my wife and I would be considered 
rats ; but a good comfortable house, if ’t was built 
a hundred years ago.’ ‘Well,’ says Stevenson, 

‘ I ’m goin’ to take out that old furniture and sell 
it ; and if you can find a nice, orderly tenant — a 


34 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

very particular old bachelor preferred — that will 
keep the ark in decent repair, you may have all 
the rent you can get out of him.’ ” 

“Which won’t be much, I’m afraid,” said Gil- 
bert, with a smile. 

“ All I want is for you to do any carpentering 
that ’s needed around the house, and for Johnnie, 
there, to do an errand when he ’s needed. You 
can pay half the board you ’ve been paying, and 
that will more than feed you both. My wife and 
Doll will do what little sweepin’ and cleanin’ needs 
to be done.” 

“ How near the harbor is the house ? ” 

“ Not more ’n five hundred feet. It ’s on good, 
high ground though ; an’ there ’s a tree close 
t’ the front door. Martha and Doll will be awful 
glad to have company. They get pretty lonesome 
sometimes, I ’ll allow.” 

“John,” said Gilbert, wheeling round suddenly, 
and gazing into the shadows out of which shone 
his boy’s big gray eyes, “ do you want to go } Mr, 
Wilson invites us to occupy three rooms in a little 
old-fashioned house in which he lives, down by the 
wharves. You’ve heard what he says about it. 
Do you want to go?” 

The two eyes sent down a flash. 


The Hole in the Wall, 


35 


“ Yes, father ! ” 

“ Then, Mr. Wilson, we ’ll come any time when 
yon are ready. Of course we must give a week’s 
notice at Mrs. Roberts’.” 

“The sooner the better for me,” replied the 
other heartily. “ I ’ll tell Mr. Stevenson before 
I sleep to-night, and have the goods cleared out. 
Perhaps he ’ll leave one or two pieces of furniture. 
It ’s all old, you know.” 

“ Where did it come from } ” 

“ It ’s the remnants from the half-dozen old 
dwelling houses that used to belong to the estate. 
They ’ve been all pulled down or made over but 
this one, and so the furniture kept collectin’ and 
collectin’. It would n’t bring much more ’n the 
expense of cartin’, at auction, so they ’ve just let 
it stay there, knee-deep in dust.” 

“ How old is the house, do you think ? ” inquired 
Gilbert, removing his carpenter’s apron, and dust- 
ing off bits of chip and sawdust from his thread- 
bare clothes. 

“Oh, I don’t know. Built before the Revolu- 
tion, I reckon. There ’s two or three queer stories 
about the place, that you ’ll like to hear some time. 
They do say it ’s haunted.” 

Here he stopped, in obedience to a gesture from 


36 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

the other’s hand. But John had caught the word, 
"^nd was treasuring it up with awe. A haunted 
house ! He was more than ever anxious to move 
into it. 

For I think you ’ve discovered by this time that 
the three chief characteristics of the boy were 
honesty, trust in his father, and personal courage 
of the sort that sees danger and dreads it, but 
meets it with all his might. True bravery, strange 
to say, is the very sister, or perhaps I should say 
elder brother, of fear ; they live in the same house, 
and never are far apart. The only shamefulness 
is when one sees the big brother idling about the 
house, or shambling along behind his pale little 
sister, instead of putting his arm about her, shield- 
ing her, and bearing her infirmities in such lovely 
ways that she grows like him. 

That night Mr. Kent notified Mrs. Roberts, his 
landlady, that on the following Monday week he 
should pack up his slender effects, and say good- 
by to her. She was sincerely sorry, for he was a 
good, quiet boarder, who never complained of the 
quality of his food or the scantiness of his accom- 
modations. She at once asked a private interview, 
and offered to let Johnnie’s bill count for nothing, 
if the two would remain with her. 


The Hole in the Wall. 


37 


But Gilbert was firm. He insisted on going, 
though he managed to let her realize his determi- 
nation without wounding her feelings. When the 
interview was over, the woman was in tears. She 
refused to receive pay for his final week’s board 
and told him he must accept as her parting gift 
all that John and he could eat during those seven 
days, together with some sixty hours’ free sleep. 


CHAPTER III. 


DOROTHY. 


OTHER, the chickens are wild to-night. 



Do you think there’s going to be a 
storm ? ” 

I think it ’s likely, child. How ’s the wind ? ” 

“ It ’s the wave wind.” 

“ And the sky } ” 

‘‘All muffled up with clouds. And, oh, how 
the chickens fly ! ” 

“ Then the storm is coming. I hope your 
father will get home early. What time is it, 
Dorrie .? ” 

“ Half-past four, mother. Sha’n’t I put the 
tea on to steep ” 

“Not quite yet. Wait fifteen minutes. But 
you can be cutting the toast, if you like. I ’ve 
bought a little cream from the new shop, and 
your father shall have some of that soft toast 
that he likes.” 

“ O mother, how nice ! Where is the loaf ? ” 


Dorothy. 39 

“ On the lower shelf of the pantry. Cut the 
slices thin, girlie.” 

There was no need to admonish the child. 
She had often prepared slices for the toaster* 
and every time she bent her whole mind to the 
task. 

Scrambling down from the big window seat 
where she had been nestling, she went across 
the floor with a motion that would have been 
ludicrous, but for the pitiful cause. 

Some three years before, there had been a 
brief account in the morning papers of an ac- 
cident in Fort Hill Square. A child had run 
against a large dray, moving along the street, 
and the forward wheel had — But why go into » 
the painful details } The child’s name was Dor- 
othy Wilson, and here she was, on this March 
afternoon, in her home down by the wharves, 
hopping on her only foot across the floor of 
the small kitchen, toward the pantry. She might 
have used her little crutch, which was standing 
in the corner, but she preferred to flutter about 
without it, with her small hands waving up and 
down like wings, as long as she was happy. Her 
mother always knew when she was in low spirits, 
because then she put her crutch under her arm. 


40 


The Boyhood of John Kent, 


and moved slowly to and fro on her errands, 
leaning heavily upon it. 

Hop, hop, hop, beating the air like a chicken 
that is not yet quite sure whether it is meant 
to fly or walk — three hops took her to the 
pantry door. 

Then came the cutting. First the brown, 
crusty piece had to be pared off and carefully 
laid aside. Then, with a crisp but mellow 
c-r-r-unch ! the knife passed slowly down through 
the loaf, the little maid holding her breath at 
each fresh cut, and giving a long sigh of content 
as the thin, fragrant slice fell over upon its 
predecessors. 

“ There, there, child ! ” called out Mrs. Wilson, 
from the outer room. Don’t cut up the whole 
loaf.” 

“ How many slices, mother } ” 

Dorothy eyed the loaf regretfully. 

“ Not more ’n a dozen. The cream won’t hold 
out.” 

Dorothy counted. Eleven. The last slice was 
cut with more than usual care, the loaf put away, 
and covered up with a bowl, and the slices brought 
out. 

“ Now, may I put tea on } ” 


Dorothy. 41 

If you want to, Dorrie. Here, let me get the 
caddy for you.” 

The woman reached up to a high shelf and 
took down the little caddy of japanned tin. 

“ There, shake out what you want; and I ’ll put 
it back.” 

Dorrie took off the top of the caddy, regaled 
herself with a rapturous sniff of its contents, 
and poured out upon the pine shelf, which was 
scrubbed as clean as soap and sand could make 
it, a small heap of the bits of leaf and stalk that 
possessed such magical power of revival under 
the cheery influences of hot water and Mrs. 
Wilson’s chubby little Wedgwood teapot. 

The caddy was put back on the shelf, the tea- 
leaves placed in the Wedgwood, and Mrs. Wil- 
son poured in the water, which fell with a rich, 
bubbly sound into it, throwing up clouds of herby- 
smelling steam, the escape of which was soon 
checked by the cover. Having set the teapot 
upon the back part of the stove to steep, Doro- 
thy peeped in to see that the coals were reach- 
ing a proper state for toasting, surveyed the 
bread, the cream, and the tea with great satis- 
faction, and hopped back to the window seat 
for one more look at her “ chickens,” as she 


42 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

called the seagulls that were floating about in 
the strong breeze, back and forth, aslant, above 
the harbor. 

If we could look down upon the smoky, noisy, 
grimy north end of the city from the gull point 
of view, we should see that the house where the 
Wilsons live, and which Gilbert Kent and his 
son mean to make their home, is an odd relic of 
a past age, as completely out of date, among 
the busy warehouses and manufactories about it, 
as our great-great-great-grandmother would be, 
dressed in the style of her day, and oh, so old, 
so very old, in the midst of a gay crowd of ladies 
and young girls shopping on Temple Place. 

When the house was built, in the early days of 
Boston, it had plenty of company. Other build- 
ings of similar architecture were grouped about it, 
and people in silks and velvets trod its threshold. 
There was a tradition once rife in the neighbor- 
hood that Lafayette had paused before this iden- 
tical structure ; nay, before the very window seat 
where the little crippled lass is now sitting ; and 
spying a pretty face behind the panes courteously 
doffed his hat, whereat the owner of the bright 
face started back from her chair, flushing indig- 
nantly, and pulled the shutter to with a clang. 


Dorothy. 


43 


For she was the daughter of a Tory and would 
have nothing to do with the gallant Frenchman, 
whose sympathies were with the Boston rebels. 

Be that as it may, the house was certainly 
standing at the time of the Revolution, and was 
by no means new even then. It was not a large 
affair, measured up and down, for it was only a 
story and a half high with a quaint gambrel roof, 
and a huge chimney occupying a space as large as 
a good-sized room. 

But, although it was not lofty, the old house 
covered considerable space, for in the course of 
several generations of occupants, additions had 
been built to the original structure, and these, 
rambling about at obtuse angles with one another 
in the vaguest possible way, would have afforded 
ample room for two families, if not more. One 
end of the house, comprising what was the most 
recent addition, was occupied, as we have seen, by 
the carpenter and his wife and child. The oldest 
portion of all, to which the Kents were invited, 
was surmounted by a sort of rickety cupola, vis- 
ited only by pigeons and an occasional swallow. 

The site for the house had been well chosen, for 
it was on high ground, and the land fell off so rap- 
idly toward the north and east that from the upper 


44 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

windows a glimpse could actually be obtained of 
the heaving sea itself, tossing restlessly to and 
fro in the harbor. 

Even from Dorrie’s favorite window seat in the 
kitchen the topmasts of vessels, with their tarry 
ropes, and an occasional grimy sail, were in full 
view, and filled the lame child’s brain with end- 
less dreams of foreign lands. To her, in her 
lonely life, everything that moved, whether it 
had breath or not, was possessed of an individu- 
ality of its own ; and her names for common 
enough things were as simple and graphic as 
the vocabulary of an Indian. 

The gulls were her chickens in the great sky- 
farmyard; clouds “muffled” the sky when God 
wanted to keep it warm and dry from the storm. 
The east wind, sweeping in with the salt scents 
of the Atlantic, was the “ wave-wind ; ” and others 
were in the same way re-christened by Dorothy. 

Her lookout at the window did not last long 
this time, for it was now growing dusk, and a 
splashy exclamation point or two on the pane 
told of the gathering storm, which would prob- 
ably bring her father home at an earlier hour 
than usual. 

She poised herself on one foot, and hopping to 


Dorothy. 


45 


the fire laid the slices of bread on a gridiron, 
removed a stove-cover, and proceeded to toast 
them with eager concentration on her task. For 
Dorrie’s toast was famous and had to be of exactly 
the right shade of brown and degree of crispness. 

Mrs. Wilson, in the meantime, was stirring up 
cream and butter in a small saucepan, and now 
the slices of toast were dipped and arranged in a 
blue-and-white dish of unknown age. 

Just as these preparations were finished, a white 
tablecloth thrown over the table, and the plates 
laid, the outer door opened and closed. A moment 
later a peculiar, soft whistle was heard. 

Dorrie dropped her knives and forks, and went 
fluttering across the room to meet her father, who 
was shaking a few sprinkle-drops of rain from his 
overcoat. 

“ Welcome home, papa ! ” she cried, putting up 
her face to be kissed ; and in he came, bearing his 
little lame bird in his arms, as he had done ever 
since she was hurt. 

“ Oh, this is good ! ” he exclaimed as he entered 
the kitchen and sniffed at the grateful smell of 
toast and steaming tea. ‘‘ A long day, eh, Martha } 
But I ’ve got good news for you.” 

His other arm was around his wife by this time, 


46 The BoyJiood of John Kent. 

and the three would have made a pretty group, 
standing there in the red firelight that streamed 
out from between the bars of the stove, if there 
had been any one looking in at the window to see. 

“What is it, Thomas.^ I can’t stop a minute, 
for the toast ’ll all dry up.” 

“ Why, Gilbert Kent and his boy have agreed to 
come here and live in the further end of the house, 
just as we planned.” 

“ Oh, good, good ! I ’ll show him my chickens, 
and we ’ll have a garden, and oh — he must be a 
nice boy, father } ” 

“ A capital boy ; I wonder I have n’t brought 
him down to see you some time. An’ he ’s jest 
off the hooks to come, I can tell you.” 

Mrs. Wilson looked nearly as much pleased as 
her daughter. She at once set about preparing 
the table for supper. 

“ I have n’t had any light yet,” she apologized, 
“ because Dorrie does like the stove-light so. 
There,” as she placed the lamp on the table, “ now 
it really does look cheerful ! You sit right down, 
Thomas, and I ’ll pour out the tea the first thing. 
How it does rain, to be sure ! ” 

The storm had come, and the drops were dash- 
ing and drumming against the panes in a way that 
made the little room seem all the cosier. 


Dorothy. 


47 


“ Do you believe we can make the place com- 
fortable for him ? ” asked Martha, as they sat 
around the table. “You’ve always said he was 
such a scholar. And the boy — I’m afraid he ’ll 
get lonesome, away down in this quiet corner.” 

“ Oh, we can fix things up well enough. Give 
Kent a place for his books, and a good shelter for 
his boy, and he ’ll ask no more. As for John, 
Doll, here, will be company enough for him.” 

The girl’s eyes sparkled. She could not eat, 
she was so excited at the prospect of having a 
companion. Once or twice a doubt flashed across 
her, a fear lest the strange boy might not sympa- 
thize with her likes and dislikes, might even be 
rude and disagreeable to her ; and then came again 
the necessary conviction that he must be nice.” 
God could n’t have been saving up this new delight 
for her all this time, this answer to her repeated 
though silent prayers (not mentioned even to her 
mother, lest they should make her unhappy), to 
give her at last a disappointment. So she yielded 
herself to the bliss of anticipation. 

The Wilsons in their youth had lived in a town 
adjoining that of the Kents. They had come to 
Boston soon after their marriage, and having heard 
of this dilapidated tenement, had obtained per- 


48 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

mission to rent it and occupy it for an exceedingly 
small sum. 

Thomas had failed to inform his new tenant — 
mainly because he understood so little about it 
himself — that the estate was now the subject of 
a lawsuit between certain claimants and heirs, 
and that it bade fair to remain so for a good while 
to come. In the course of time other buildings 
had so sprung up around it that it was entirely 
removed from business streets, with the nearest of 
which it was connected only by a long and cir- 
cuitous alley, which led finally straight under a 
huge storage warehouse, and so out to the world 
beyond. 

Mr. Stevenson, the agent in charge of the neg- 
lected spot, was perfectly willing to have it for- 
gotten and “unimproved,” so long as his salary 
continued, and the rent from Wilson was regularly 
forthcoming. He made no objection to the new 
tenants, but gave all parties distinctly to under- 
stand that they were “tenants at sufferance ” only, 
and were liable to have to leave any day on short 
notice. 

This had at first disturbed the Wilsons, but as 
day followed day, and weeks glided into months, 
they gradually lost sight of the instability of 


Dorothy. 49 

their perch, and grew to regard it as a permanent 
home. 

Dorothy had just begun to go to school when 
the accident happened. Since then the sensitive 
child could not bear the glances of her school- 
mates, and the pitying allusions or constrained 
silence caused by her misfortune. So her mother 
taught her as best she could at home. She had 
heard that John Kent was acquiring an education 
in the same way. Perhaps they could study to- 
gether. To be sure she was a year younger ; but 
then he would be like a big brother to her. 

The rain beat in torrents upon the shingled roof 
over Dorothy’s head that night, but her dreams 
were sunshiny with hope. 


CHAPTER IV. 


AT HOME. 

the morning appointed for moving John 
paid everybody and every place in the 
dingy and ill-ordered boarding house a last visit. 

Mrs. Courtley held him in her arms for a mo- 
ment, her silvery hair mingling with his wavy 
brown locks. Then she kissed him on the fore- 
head, and, rising, went to a tiny cupboard in the 
wall. Unlocking this with a curiously-shaped 
key, she took down, after a slight hesitation, a 
quaint china cup of antique pattern and gave it 
to him. 

It is all I have,” she said. ‘‘ I wish I could 
afford to buy you a nice present — not to re- 
member me by, for you will do that anyway ” — 

“ Indeed I will, ma’am ! ” 

“But just because I love you, my dear. And 
whenever you look at the little cup, I want you 
to think, ‘If I am ever in any trouble of mind or 
heart, I must go to her.’ ” 

“ Like the fairy godmother,” said John, trying 
60 


At Home, 


51 


hard not to cry at the thought of leaving his good 
friend behind. Dear Lady Courtley, thank you 
very much for the cup. I shall be sure to remem- 
ber, and I ’ll come often to see you, if father ’ll 
let me. Good-by.” 

“ Good-by, my boy. God bless you.” 

The hardest parting was now over. Mrs. Rob- 
erts cried a good deal, into a doubtful-looking 
apron, and the weak young man, whose name 
was Pettingill, caressed him with a cold and 
bony hand. The latter, moreover, offered his 
assistance in moving, which was gladly accepted. 

Two shabby trunks and a box of books com- 
prised their entire stock of worldly goods, and 
these were wheeled down on a barrow to the 
new home, in successive trips, causing the young 
man, whose legs were not strong, to tremble a 
good deal. 

“ When it comes to handlin’ cans,” he con- 
fided shakily to John as he wiped his clammy 
brow, “ I ’m some ! But I ain’t no pedestrium, 
I ain’t.” 

Last of all, the boy took his father’s hand, and, 
guided by Mr. Wilson, who gave himself a half- 
holiday, walked, for the first time in many years, 
home. 


52 


The Boyhood of John Kent 


He had to take careful note of the route, there 
were so many twists and turns between the shop 
and the house. 

Pretty soon there began to be a tarry odor in 
the air. Pennants appeared now and then, float- 
ing from slender mastheads, over beyond cordage 
and junk shops. Occasionally they caught sight 
of a green inlet of water, with lazy ripples, rising 
and falling against piles black with age. 

As they were nearing the end of their j.ourney 
John thought he heard a pattering of little feet 
behind him, on the sidewalk. He turned, and 
lo ! there was the identical terrier he had res- 
cued months before, trotting along in their wake. 
As John turned, the dog stopped and looked up 
at the boy with an appealing look, his wiry tail 
giving one or two irresolute wags, as if uncertain 
what emotion had better be expressed under the 
trying circumstances. 

“Look, father!” said John. “ There ^s that 
little dog following us. Do you suppose he re- 
members me ? Ought n’t we to send him home.^ ” 

The tail stopped wagging, and slowly uncurled. 
The dog never took his eyes from John’s face. 

“Well,” said Mr. Kent, “I don’t know as it 
will do any harm to let him come along, if Mr. 


At Home. 


S3 


Wilson don’t care. You can take him back to 
the old street to-morrow.” 

Mr. Wilson did not care, but said he really 
hoped the dog would stay. His little girl had 
kept asking for one ever since she got back 
from the hospital. 

“You know,” he added, his voice growing a 
trifle husky, “the way she got hurt was dartin’ 
out into the street to pick up a lame dog she 
thought was goin’ to git run over.” 

All this time their fourfooted follower eagerly 
watched the speakers, and, as they moved on, 
tripped hopefully after them, his tail resuming 
its normal curl, and a new light of hope in his 
liquid brown eyes. When John was not looking, 
he even took two or three little fancy steps, a 
sort of hop, skip, and jump of delight, sobering 
down instantly, however, and trotting meekly 
along again as he saw Gilbert glance toward 
him. 

Another turn, from a large street into a small 
one, then diagonally into one still narrower, pretty 
sharply uphill, and they arrived at the entrance of 
the alley. 

“ Don’t hit your heads,” cautioned Mr. Wilson, 
setting the example by stooping as he entered. 


54 The Boyhood of John Kent, 

It was very dark for a few steps, and the dog’s 
hair bristled as vague visions of rats floated 
across his misty, half-spiritual, half-brutal con- 
sciousness. 

“’Twill be lighter in a minute,” Called the 
guide again from the van. “ Now we ’re all 
right.” 

John looked about him with great curiosity. 
The path still inclined upward. On the right, a 
neglected, vacant lot, with what were perhaps the 
remains of an ancient cellar, now half-full of 
dingy, freeze-and-thaw ice, blackened shrubs, and 
a miscellaneous collection of old cans, bottles, and 
boots, lay between him and the shuttered back- 
windows of the warehouses he had just passed. 

On the left, nothing but tall, dingy buildings of 
brick and granite, the windows a dull brown from 
inner and outer dust. Not a dwelling house to be 
seen, until, from a few steps farther on, their own 
came into view. 

John Kent will never forget that first sight of 
his new home — so old, so very old, yet so new to 
him. 

The ground on this side of the house was a 
little higher than its threshold, so that it seemed 
nestling in the earth and peeping out at him from 


At Home, 


55 


behind a low wicket fence that ran completely 
round it. It was sheltered by the one remaining 
tree in that quarter of the city, a gnarled and 
rugged elm, which had grown stunted and discour- 
aged during its young life, but now, in its ripe old 
age, was reaping the benefit of the decay and 
removal of its former hindrances, and gratefully 
lifting its boughs to the sun for which it had 
waited so long. It was just tall enough to over- 
top the house, against the garret windows of 
which it brushed. The boughs were bare and 
blackened, but John could see the tiny, knobby 
buds all over them, ready for the touch of 
spring. 

Beyond the house were the city roofs and red 
walls again, with a film of smoke hanging lazily 
above them. And beyond them, the grove of 
slender topmasts, in which Dorothy’s imagination 
was wont so often to wander. 

Overhead floated, far apart, strange birds with 
narrow, graceful wings and white breasts ; above 
all, the sleepy, motionless clouds of a March after- 
noon. 

All these surroundings John took in at hardly 
more than a glance. For standing in the gate- 
way, in front of the house, was a vision that 


56 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

caused him to catch his breath with wonder and 
delight. 

Only a girl, who might be about his own age, in 
a simple woolen dress, and a faded scarf thrown 
about her head and shoulders. But it was her 
face that arrested him. Such a clear, transparent 
complexion, framed by a fluff of silky hair that 
escaped from under the homely scarf and shone 
like threads of spun gold, in the afternoon sun ; 
and such wide-open blue eyes looking straight 
into his with almost painful intentness ! She 
stood poised on one foot, supporting herself 
lightly with a tiny hand against each post of the 
narrow gate, and leaned forward breathlessly. So 
slight, so fair, so exquisitely pure and dainty she 
looked, that John was almost afraid she would fly 
away with those strange birds, before his very eyes. 

As he came up she did not speak, but looked 
up into his face with the terrier’s appeal in her 
two blue eyes, and something of a woman’s 
searching glance, that reads so terribly; then, 
with a sigh of relief, held out one hand, and 
turned up her face to be kissed. 

John touched her lips reverently with his. He 
hardly knew how to address this fragile little 
creature. 


At Home. 57 

“ Sha’n’t we come in ? ” he said, clumsily for- 
getting what he had heard of her lameness. 

‘‘You go first,” the sensitive child replied, 
flushing to the roots of her hair ; “ I always wait 
for papa.” 

So the four, with master terrier at their heels, 
entered the kitchen together. 

There was no mistaking the warmth of Mrs. 
Wilson’s welcome. 

“ I ’ve only been afraid you ’d change your 
mind and wouldn’t come,” she said. “You’ve 
no idea how glad we are to see you, Mr. Kent ! 
And John, too ; what a strong-looking boy for his 
age ! Just come right into the living room,” she 
continued, — for Martha Wilson had not forgotten 
the old New England term, — “and make your- 
selves at home.” 

“ I suppose we must unpack and take posses- 
sion of our new quarters pretty soon,” remarked 
Gilbert with a smile. “Have the boxes arrived 
safely ” 

“All come, three of them, in good order. I 
had the man put ’em down right by the front 
door. Dorrie, where are you taking John.?” 

“Just to see my chickens,” said the child 
shyly. “ Won’t you come .? ” she added, looking 


58 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

up into his face with a trustfulness that won 
him completely. 

I ’d like to see them very much. Are you 
going to feed them } ” 

Dorrie gave a merry laugh that made her com- 
panion feel more comfortably sure she was a 
human girl. 

“ They ’ve beqn fed already,” she said with a 
queer look. “ There,” leading him to her favorite 
window seat, “ do you see them } ” 

“ Oh, those,” he said, rather mystified. “Are 
they yours } Do they know you } ” 

But another laugh was her only reply. How 
delightful it was to have somebody to show these 
things to ! She was quite surprised to find that 
her treasures had never seemed so wholly her 
own as when she had divided the possession with 
John. 

Most of the remaining hours of the afternoon 
were spent in cleaning out the “ Kent end ” of 
the house, and preparing it for the occupancy of 
the new-comers. Among the old furniture had 
been found a couple of beds, a table, and three 
or four chairs, all more or less out of repair, 
which Mr. Wilson had purchased for a small sum 
on Gilbert’s account. To mend them would be 


At Home. 


59 


merely amusement during leisure moments ; and 
John actually preferred the broken furniture on 
that account. 

Father always likes to mend things,” he con- 
fided to Dorrie, as they viewed with great satisfac- 
tion an armchair with only three legs. 

I wonder,”' said Dorrie slowly, “ if God will 
ever mend me ! ” 

Then she suddenly threw herself on the floor 
in 'a passion of weeping, her little shoulders ris- 
ing and falling convulsively with her sobs. It was 
the first time in many months that she had openly 
rebelled against her misfortune. Something in 
the ludicrous attitudes of the maimed furniture 
tilting helplessly this way and that reminded her 
sharply of what she often entirely forgot in her 
solitary life. And now here was John. Did she 
look to him like that } How could she ever play 
with him ^ 

John stood a moment, speechless with sympa- 
thy. Then he stooped over the little dusty figure 
and, raising her from the floor, put his arms tightly 
round her. 

You really don’t need mending, you know, 
Dorrie,” he whispered. “If you were nothing 
but a chair, you would.” 


6o The Boyhood of John Kent. 

Dorothy’s tears ceased to flow, though her 
bosom heaved. It was an entirely new view of 
the subject. 

“Besides,” continued John, “you’ve got three 
feet anyway.” 

The blue eyes shot out a glance of surprise 
from under the wisps of tossed hair that were 
hung with bright drops like a rosebush after an 
April shower. 

“ Why, don’t you see } God has n’t mended 
your leg, you know, but he sent me to you. I ’m 
your friend, and of course if I ’m yours, every- 
thing I ’ve got is yours, and here are my two feet. 
He gave them to you, I guess, and you can always 
call them yours. They ’ll go anywhere you want 
them to, as long as I live.” 

Most girls would have laughed and said, “ How 
funny ! ” 

Dorothy neither laughed nor cried. She looked 
him full in the face a minute, then released herself 
gently, and saying, “ I ’m sorry I was naughty,” 
turned and hopped slowly away to her seat in the 
kitchen window. Her mother noticed that she 
used her crutch all the rest of that day. 

When she kneeled that night in a one-sided 
fashion to say her prayers at her mother’s knee, 
this is what she said : — 


At Home. 


6i 


“ Dear Lord, I was very bad to cry because you 
did n’t mend me. Please forgive me, and keep me 
just the way you want me, only make me real 
good. And, O dear Lord, I thank you for sending 
me John Kent’s feet. Amen.” 


CHAPTER V. 


OLD FRIENDS. 


O the children, and perhaps to Gilbert Kent, 



the days that followed were cups filled to 
the brim with such joy as they had never before 
known. 

There was much to do to make the old house 
really habitable. For half a century moth and 
rust, with their more active allies, rats, mice, and 
the weather, had done their best to level the gray 
walls, on which, as all over the roof, bright green 
moss and golden lichen grew plentifully. 

It was fortunate that March was rather lamb-like 
than leonine that year, or father and son would 
have suffered from the wind that for weeks 
laughed at their efforts to keep him out, finding 
his way in through some unguarded postern as 
often as he was balked at larger entrances. 

Gilbert found his time completely occupied 
through the working hours of the day in patching 
the roof, re-nailing clapboards, repairing furniture, 
and setting things to rights generally. He found 


62 


Old Friends. 


63 


opportunities to do an odd job now and then for 
Mrs. Wilson, whose premises were often apt to 
need a few nails or a shingle for days before her 
husband could afford the time away from his shop 
necessary for the operation. Besides, Thomas Wil- 
son was an easy-going man, who was in the habit 
of leaving things about as they were as long as 
possible. 

One important assistant — or so he appeared to 
consider himself — was the terrier, who was now 
wholly domesticated in the family, and who went 
by the name of Terry, partly as an abbreviation 
of his generic appellation, partly in honor of a 
good-natured Irish boy whose acquaintance John 
had made a short time before his removal from 
Mrs. Roberts’ boarding house. 

Terry was constantly present during the repairs, 
lending the whole weight of his moral support to 
the undertaking. Not a nail was driven but Terry 
winked at every blow ; not a hole in the floor was 
mended which Terry’s moist nose had not seriously 
investigated. When Gilbert had occasion to mount 
the short ladder that the leakages in the roof ren- 
dered necessary, Terry stood patiently, with his 
fore paws upon the lowest round, evidently under 
the impression that he was steadying the ladder 


64 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

for the workman. No trace of his original owner, 
it should be remarked, could be discovered by the 
most diligent inquiry. Indeed, Terry seemed to 
have “growed,” like Topsy, and to have found his 
first real home in the old house. 

One morning Gilbert sent John and Dorrieaway 
upon an errand to the other end of the city, giving 
them their horse car fares, and telling them they 
need not be back before the dinner-hour. 

On their return, he met them at the gate, 
relieved Dorrie of her crutch (which of course 
she had to carry in the public streets and the 
cars, whatever her mood) and taking her in his 
arms, bade his son follow him. They entered the 
front door, and turning to the right instead of to 
the left, as usual, found themselves in a long, 
narrow room which had formerly served for a 
parlor ; it was now abandoned entirely to dust and 
cobwebs, and formed a sort of march land between 
the Kents and the Wilsons. 

“ Why, Mr. Kent, what are you bringing me in 
here for } ” cried Dorrie. I could have walked 
just as well.” 

John smiled covertly. The idea of seriously 
suspecting his father of doing anything foolish or 
unnecessary simply amused him. 


Old Friends. 


65 


Instead of answering, Gilbert stepped to a small 
door with rudely carved panels, which neither of 
the children had ever opened. 

On its being thrown back, a narrow, winding 
staircase was disclosed. They could see that the 
stairs had been recently swept and mended in two 
or three places. 

Up they went, and presently reached what 
seemed necessarily the end of their journey — 
a flat broad ceiling, directly above their heads, 
cutting off any further progress. It was so dark 
that they could just distinguish this. 

“ Now watch, Dorrie ! ” cried John in high glee. 
“ I know father never brought us to such a place 
as this unless there was some way to get up out 
of it.” 

“ But it ’s all closed up.” 

“ You watch ! ” 

It was Dorothy, the delicate and sensitive, after 
all, that needed her faith strengthened ; while to 
John, the robust, out-of-door boy, it was as natural 
as the air he breathed. Still he knew his father 
so much better than Dorothy did, that perhaps 
she ought not be blamed. 

Gilbert had been feeling in the darkness for a 
handle which projected from the wall of the stair- 


66 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

case. As soon as he grasped it, something above 
them rattled slightly, then a crack of sky showed ; 
and as he pulled down, the trapdoor rose up, 
until it was broadly open, and the light of noon 
streamed down through the twigs of the elm. 

For a moment the children were speechless 
with delight. Then as all three climbed the 
remaining stairs and emerged into the cupola, 
cries of delight burst from them. For behold, 
the broad ocean, stretching away to the east, 
where the harbor, dotted with islands, grew into 
a bay, and at last into the dim openness of the 
Atlantic ! 

“ O dear, dear Mr. Kent, how did you do it } 
How did you find it out ? ” 

Dorrie never took her eyes from the ocean, 
while she kept on uttering hardly coherent excla- 
mations of delight. 

“ Oh, that ’s where the chickens go at night ! 
And it was there all the time, only we were just 
too low down ! Oh, look, look, see that steamer ! ’* 

It was a Cunarder, slowly forcing her way up to 
her dock in East Boston. 

“And the ships! John, why don’t you look 
See that splendid one with the white sails — oh, 
oh!” 


Old Friends. 


67 


Further words would not come. She sank 
down on a little seat, which, newly propped and 
boarded, ran around the open cupola, just inside 
the rail. 

John, for his part, divided his glances about 
equally between his father’s face, Dorrie, and the 
scene stretched out before him. 

“Why do you look so much more at the city 
than at the sea, my son asked his father, laying 
his hand caressingly on the boy’s shoulder. 

“ I was thinking, sir,” said John in his slow 
way, “ how many folks there were down there 
under all those roofs, and how I wish they could 
get up to a place like this, where they could 
breathe good air and see the ocean.” 

“ But you don’t seem to care much about the 
ocean yourself.” 

“ Oh, I do, sir ! Only I was thinking of the 
folks. I know the ocean is there, all the time. 
I shall think of it nights when I go to sleep, and 
I hope I shall dream about it. But the folks ” — 

“ Well .? ” 

“ Why do you suppose God don’t let them have 
high places like this, father, to see from ^ ” 

“Wouldn’t they think all the time of the 
ocean and the sky, instead of trying to love their 


68 The Boyhood of John Kent 

neighbors ? Remind me sometime, son, to tell 
you the story of St. Simeon Stylites.” 

Rather profound talk, you think, for a conver- 
sation between a father and a boy of eleven } It 
is a common mistake to be afraid of speaking in 
this way to children about their kingdom — which 
is of heaven. The only trouble is, that we do not 
let our conversation with them be profound enough 
for them to understand : for in that kingdom the 
greatest things are the simplest ; and across our 
passport must be written, ere we can enter, “ He 
is as a little child.” 

After showing John the mechanism of the trap- 
door, Mr. Kent gave him and Dorrie full permis- 
sion to go there whenever they wanted to. He 
eventually built a little banister of rope down the 
staircase, as in the companion-way of a vessel, for 
Dorrie to hold on by, in going up or down. There 
was one point on which he warned them to be 
careful. The trap could not be opened from the 
upper side. They must therefore never close it 
below them. 

On the evening after the renovation of the 
cupola. Lady Courtley aud Waldo Pettingill took 
tea with the Wilsons and Kents, by special invi- 
tation. 


Old Friends. 


69 


After the departure of the latter from the 
boarding house, these two singularly unlike peo- 
ple had been drawn together by the mere fact 
of their common mourning for the two friends 
who had gone. By a sort of divine Rule of 
Three it often comes about that two people 
who are fond of a third become attached to 
each other; especially if that third be a wholly 
worthy person and temporarily out of sight. 

So it was in this case. Mr. Pettingill, on the 
evening when the two vacant chairs were first 
observed at Mrs. Roberts’ table, took his tea 
without milk — a mark of the deepest affliction 
with him, which was a constant trial to his land- 
lady’s conscience, lest she should be glad when- 
ever trouble overtook him. 

The strong tea, combined with his emotions, 
causing the young man to choke somewhat, he 
met Mrs. Courtley’s eye, which she had uninten- 
tionally fixed upon him, whereat he fairly broke 
down and left the table ; for “Lady” was known 
to be the particular friend and confidante of John. 
The sense of his loss came more vividly to the 
poor fellow as he met her sympathizing glance. 

He had a ticket that evening to the Perform- 
ing Seals and Wild Men of Borneo, but he felt 
that their performances would jar upon him. 


70 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

He was sitting on the edge of his bed in his 
desolate room, staring gloomily at the bright 
spot in the carpet covered by Gilbert’s old hair- 
trunk for the last five years, when a tap came 
at the door, and a message that Mrs. Courtley 
would like to see him a few moments in her 
room, if he pleased. 

Mechanically twitching his necktie into place 
and buttoning his coat across his narrow chest, 
he did as he was bid, too miserable to be elated 
over what would otherwise have seemed a great 
honor, to receive such an invitation from Lady.” 

What passed at that interview he never told, 
but he came out with a more hopeful tread and 
the air of a man who has found a friend. 

By special permission he changed his seat, at 
the next meal, from the extreme end of the 
table to one beside Lady Courtley, and endeav- 
ored to show, by every mark of respect, — ex- 
tending even to the gift of a dozen very bright 
cans from the establishment with which he was 
connected, “ to plant flowers in,” — his allegiance 
to her. 

The wit of the table essayed some rude joke 
about 

“ Bandy Dan, 

The lady’s man;” 


Old Friends, 


71 

but it was not well received, and the would-be 
satirist subsided. 

Mrs. a. M. Courtley : — 

Dear Mada7ny — I should be very much pleased, and so 
would Mr. Kent and John, to have you take tea with us next 
Thursday evening at six. John talks about you a great deal, 
and says, “ Please come, dear lady.” 

Yours very respectfully, 

Martha Wilson. 

Mrs. Martha Wilson: — 

Dear Madam, — It will give me great pleasure to take tea 
with you on Thursday. May I presume on your kindness to 
bring one more guest? You may have heard Mr. Kent speak 
of Mr. Waldo Pettingill, a former roommate of his at this 
house. I know it would give him sincere pleasure to be 
included in your invitation. 

Very truly yours, 

Augusta M. Courtley. 

Dear Mrs. Courtley, — Do ask Mr. Pettingill, by all 
means. We shall be very glad to see him. 

Yours sincerely, 

Martha Wilson. 

That was the correspondence, and, as a result 
thereof, on the aforesaid Thursday evening a 
gentle-faced, silver-haired lady, accompanied by 
a young gentleman with light eyebrows and 
rather a disconcerted air (from having knocked 
his head several times against the brickwork of 


72 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

the alley), opened the little gate we know so well, 
and walked up to the door. 

John Kent sprang into the lady’s arms, and 
then gave a warm grasp of the hand to Mr. 
Pettingill, who patted him violently on the head 
as if he were sealing him like a can. 

“ Step right up to my room, ma’am, and lay 
off your things,” said hospitable Martha, while 
her other visitor, who, however awkward he might 
be in general society, was always at home with 
dogs — that was what first led John to trust in 
him — ingratiated himself with Terry. ' 

Little Dorrie hopped to and fro in a state of 
great excitement, with a bright flush on her usu- 
ally pale cheek. 

Gilbert and Mr. Wilson now coming in from a 
repair job on the fence, the whole company sat 
down to tea ; a ceremony to which Martha’s cosy 
little Wedgwood had been summoning them for 
the last ten minutes. 

“ I must confess, Mr. Kent,” said Lady Court- 
ley, with one of her bright smiles, “that you 
have gained by the change.” 

“Ah,” replied Gilbert, “we have, indeed. Such 
quiet, such peace of mind, I have hardly known 
since I arrived in Boston.” 


Old Friends. 


73 


It is such a dear, quaint little place here ! 
Is there any school or church near by for the 
children ? ” 

“ There is a school,” replied Mrs. Wilson, but 
neither of them attend it, ma’am. I ’ve been 
trying to give lessons to my Dorrie, and John 
says you ’ve done the same by him. I hardly 
dare say how he misses you.” 

“ I can guess,” she replied, with an affectionate 
glance at the boy, “ for I know how much I miss 
him.” 

“We go to meetin’,”. continued Martha, “in 
a little meetin’-house down by the wharves. 
There ’s a man preaches there in a sail loft to 
the sailors. We go partly because it ’s near and 
partly for the reason that Thomas has a fancy 
for hearing the gospel preached to seafaring men, 
the way it was in the first place.” 

The conversation soon wandered off to other 
topics, and before long a general pushing back 
of chairs announced that the meal was finished. 

John and Dorrie at once took possession of 
Lady and took her to all their favorite nooks in 
the old house. Mr. Kent’s rooms were cheaply 
furnished, but they had an air of their own from 
their very age. There were two or three prints 


74 The Boyhood of John Kent 

on the wall, including a woodcut from Harper’s, 
framed by Gilbert’s own hand. His books, well- 
worn, but in neatest possible condition, were on 
plain pine shelves on one side of the yawning 
fireplace on the lower floor, and away from its 
direct heat. 

In addition to the vacant hall or parlor already 
described, there was still another wing or ell of 
the house which had not been inhabited. This 
stretched away toward the sea and commanded a 
partial view of the harbor, of course not equal to 
that from the cupola above. 

It was in the garret in this wing that Mr. Kent 
had decided to sleep. John’s room, opening from 
his father’s, was merely the corner of the garret, 
divided from the other portions by a rude board 
partition. There were two windows, one in the 
end of the building and a smaller one, of dormer 
shape, in the gambrel roof. From this latter 
window, the cupola, and in fact nearly the whole 
of the house, could be seen. 

John’s bed was under the eaves, and he told 
his white-haired friend, as he pointed out where 
he slept, that he never lay down at night without 
a last look out toward the north and east, where 
he knew the sea was, though he could neither 
hear nor see it. 


Old Friends, 


75 


‘‘And then/’ he continued eagerly, “I love to 
lie down and imagine I am creeping, creeping 
down between all those houses to the water, 
where a little boat is waiting for me under a high, 
black wharf, and in I jump and away goes the 
boat ” — 

“ With you rowing ? ” 

“ No, ma’am ; somehow it goes itself. And I 
can feel the backs of the waves lifting it, lifting 
it along. And we go out past the steamers and 
the lighthouses and away out on the ocean, where 
the stars float, and — and ” — 

“ And then ? ” 

“Why, then, ma’am, I ’m generally asleep.” 

Mr. Pettingill listened with some amazement to 
this method of embarking on a dream-ocean, and 
shook his head doubtfully. 

He got all the ocean he wanted, he said, 
“goin’ over to East Boston an’ back every day 
’n the ferry. Did you ever go over in a ferry- 
boat.?” he asked suddenly, turning to Dorrie, 
who was listening to all that was said. 

“No, sir,” said Dorrie shyly. 

“ Well, I ’ll tell you what, I ’ll take y’ over, 
some fine day. It ’s a real cute sail, when you 
don’t hev to do it more ’n twice a day.” 


76 


The Boyhood of John Ke^it, 


“ Thank you, sir,” said Dorrie politely. In 
her secret heart she would have preferred to be 
a fellow-passenger with John, as he had described 
his voyage. 

There was a small closet in this room where 
John kept his special treasures. There was a 
queer, oblong nut, with a mysterious something 
rattling inside ; a shell with a pink lining and a 
wonderful store of ocean songs ; the cup that 
Lady Courtley had given him, and one or two 
other keepsakes. 

All these the owner exhibited with pride. His 
visitor never lost interest in what he was showing 
her, and it was more than half an hour before 
they returned to the large room below. 

Lady Courtley now announced that she must 
take her leave. Before she went, she looked out 
of the window, and said to Dorrie : — 

“ I hope you have a garden here in the summer- 
time .? ” 

I should love to, but I Ve never had anything 
to plant but scarlet beans,” said the little maid 
sorrowfully. 

“ Look here,” broke in Waldo, so impetuously 
that he gave Martha quite a start, “ I ’ve got a 
cousin in the seed business — at least he’s a 


Old Friends. 


77 


packer and shipper in a big grocery store where 
they sell ’em — and he can always get a few pack- 
ages for nothing. I ’ll send ’em to ye, now see if 
I don’t.” 

He had been really suffering from his sympathy 
for the child, and had stared fixedly at the spot 
where her poor little foot ought to have been, 
during nearly every moment of his visit. It was 
plainly a relief to him to express himself in flower 
seeds, having vainly endeavored to find some 
opening for cans. 

Dorrie thanked him delightedly, and so did 
John, who knew his kind heart. 

The two visitors said good-by, and passed out 
through the alley, in which Mr. Pettingill bumped 
himself even more times than during his first 
passage. Terry accompanied them to the street 
with courteous wags of his tail. 


CHAPTER VI. 


JUSTICE. 


VO weeks after Mr. Waldo Pettingill’s call 



a package was delivered at the old house 
by the postman, whose visits were a rare treat. 

“ ‘ Miss Dorothy Wilson,’ ” read Martha. ** Dor- 
rie, here ’s something come for you. Do le’ ’s see 
what ’tis.” And she handed her the long, plump 
package. 

Dorrie’s fingers trembled as she unfastened the 
little metallic clamp — for the envelope was un- 
sealed — and opening the end, peered in. 

“ O mother, mother, it ’s seeds ! It ’s my seeds 
that Mr. Pettingill promised to send ! ” 

“ Land, what a lot of them ! ” exclaimed Mrs. 
Wilson, looking over her shoulder. “ Wherever 
will you plant them all ? ” 

Oh, we ’ll find a place, John and I. O mother, 
see the names — mignonette, sweet-peas, nastur- 
tium, asters, balsams — oh, and a great many 


more ! ” 


78 


Justice. 79 

Child, you ’ll have a great garden. Do you 
suppose you can take care of it ” 

“John and I can together. Oh, here ’s a letter! 
It ’s from Mr. Pettingill.” 

She unfolded it and read aloud slowly, consult- 
ing her mother once or twice on the longer words. 

Dear Miss Dorothy., — I send you herewith a parcel of 
seeds, hoping you will accept them and enjoy planting the 
same. Please give my respectful regards to Gilbert Kent, 
Esquire, and to John Kent. Also, to your father and 
mother; so no more from 

Your obdt. serv’t, 

W. Pettingill. 

P. S. If you would like some cans to plant in, I should 
be very glad to ship you a few. 

P. S. How is Terry.? 

Dorrie broke into a merry laugh, in which she 
was joined by her comrade, who had come up 
just in time to hear the two postscripts. 

“Where are you going to have your garden, 
Dorrie } ” 

“ Our garden,” she corrected. “ Come along, 
Two-feet, and we ’ll pick out a place. Father 
said I could have it anywhere I wanted.” 

She had a new method of walking now, neither 
using her crutch nor hopping. She placed one 


8o 


The Boyhood of John Kent. 


hand on John’s bent arm, and, supporting herself 
thus, and on the other side by a neat cane which 
his father had made for her, managed much more 
easily than ever before. But whenever she was 
excited or in a hurry, she still fluttered and 
hopped, with hands waving. 

“ Now, Two-feet ” (this was the new pet name 
she had given John), “what do you think of a 
little bed along this side of the house.? We could 
see the tops of the masts and the chickens while 
we worked.” 

“It won’t do, Dorrie,” said John. “There won’t 
be any sun here, except a little while in the morn- 
ing. We must have our garden on the south side 
of the house.” 

He led her round to the front door. 

“ There ; I should say the flowers would grow 
here, first-rate. The porch will keep off the wind 
and it will be warm and sunny here all summer.” 

It was settled accordingly that the garden 
should be in that spot. The earth was dug over 
by the boy, and laid out into beds with the as- 
sistance of Mr. Pettingill, who made several calls, 
after his work was finished for the day, to observe 
the progress of the enterprise. 

It was at the close of a warm May afternoon, 


Justice, 


8 


when Dorrie was taking a nap like a kitten, curled 
up in her window seat, and the sun was pouring 
down out-of-doors with a fervor that was more 
suggestive of midsummer than of spring, that an 
incident occurred which, by first driving them 
apart, bound father and son closer. 

John had spent a part of the forenoon at Lady 
Courtley’s, going over some of his old studies with 
her, and accepting a polite invitation from Mrs. 
Roberts to stay to lunch. 

From there he had gone to his father’s shop, 
and had spent an hour in his mousehole. Gilbert 
had a perplexing piece of cabinet-work on hand, 
and could not pay much attention to him, so he 
concluded to go home and dig in the garden. 

John,” said his father, looking up with knitted 
brow from an obstinate joint whose parts refused, 
for the fifth time, to meet, I wish you would go 
up to Mr; Blakeman’s and tell him I must have 
that new lot of glue. The last he sent me was 
good for nothing. You know I spoke about it 
yesterday.” 

Now John had already taken the freshest and 
sweetest hour of the day to do just that errand. 
His father had not told him when to go, but he 
knew the glue would be needed soon, and the boy 
thought he would surprise him by his promptness. 


82 


The Boyhood of John Kent 


Partly from an answering flash to the reproof 
in his father’s tone, which he knew he did not 
deserve, and partly because he still wanted to 
surprise him, — for Mr. Blakeman had promised 
to have the glue ready that very afternoon, twenty- 
four hours earlier than Gilbert expected it, — John 
did not answer a word, but quietly walked out of 
the shop and down the street. 

Gilbert’s brow darkened. 

“‘Boys will be boys,’” remarked Wilson fool- 
ishly. “ He ’ll soon get over his sulks.” 

“ If I thought ” — But Gilbert Kent did not 
finish the sentence. 

He worked in silence a few minutes, making sad 
business with his job. At last one of the most 
important pieces cracked in the middle with a 
vicious little snap, undoing the whole day’s work. 

Gilbert threw the remnants down angrily. The 
room was hot and his head ached. He had that 
mortifying sense of failure, which so wrings our 
jaded nerves when we realize that long care and 
drudgery have availed nothing and we must begin 
again at the very beginning. 

“ I can’t work any more to-day,” he said. “ I ’m 
going home now, and start this job over again to- 
morrow morning. My head aches as if ’t would 
split.” . 


Justice. 


33 


He threw on his coat, and strode through the 
shop, out into the street, toward the old house. 

, Down underneath his physical pain and the annoy- 
ance of failure was a growing uneasiness, not un- 
mixed with a sort of preparatory anger, such as 
we are sometimes taught — seldom nowadays, 
thank God ! — that our Father in heaven holds in 
store for all unborn generations of his children, 
who do not make formal acknowledgment of 
stated creeds. 

With throbbing temples and this smoldering 
irritation in his breast, Gilbert plunged into the 
dark alley and again emerged into the hot sun- 
light, half-afraid to look toward the house, lest he 
should discover with his own eyes that John had 
disobeyed him. 

We tremble at the thought of losing faith in 
God ; what if God should lose faith in us ? 

Gilbert was the human father, not the divine ; 
when he caught sight of John tying up some of 
Dorrie’s sweet-peas, he lost faith in his own son. 
A rush of what he believed, for the instant, to be 
righteous indignation, swept over him as he moved 
up the hill, a self-appointed avenging Justice to 
the evil-doer. 

John ! ” 


84 


The Boyhood of John Kent. 


The boy looked up. Never in his life had he 
heard his name in that tone from his father’s lips. 

Two years before he would have simply stood still 
and looked his father in the eye, trustful to the 
last. But, alas, the sense of injustice done him by 
that tone and manner awoke in his own breast the 
demon of unfaith. 

The moment a man is led to feel that God is 
angry with him, not with his sin, he begins to 
believe that God is not good ; which is only another 
way of saying, “There is no God.” 

For a moment John knew the bitterness of an 
orphan. He felt that he was fatherless. He 
dared not resist. He braced himself, and returned 
the look sullenly. 

“ Come into the house ! ” 

He followed this man (not his father) into the 
front room that now seemed strange and foreign 
to him. Could he ever have been at home there } 

“ What do you mean by disobeying me ? ” 

Sullen silence. 

“ Answer me this minute ! ” 

John raised his head without a word, and looked 
his father full in the face. 

The little black-and-tan terrier crept into the 
room, and gazed from one to the other with a low 
whine. 


Justice. 85 

There was more of divine in his eyes at that 
moment than in those above him. 

Gilbert made a stride forward. John never 
moved a step. 

Suddenly a change came over the man’s face. 
He trembled from head to foot, and stretching out 
his arms caught the boy to his breast. In a 
moment father and son were crying. 

“ Kneel down with me, son,” whispered Gilbert. 
And as they knelt, he prayed aloud. 

O God, Father of light, wilt thou forgive me 
and my boy. We have sinned against one another, 
and against thee. I was angry with the child thou 
didst give me, and I forgot that he was one of thy 
children, one of thy little ones, and that thou wert 
in him. Hold us both in thine arms, and help us 
to be one, even as thou and Christ are one.” 

For a long time neither of them spoke. Gilbert, 
it must be remembered, still thought that his com- 
mands had not been obeyed. He believed that a 
hard task lay before him — that of seeing his son 
humbled and suffering in repentance. 

He waited in almost an agony for John to speak ; 
not to clear himself — he did not expect that — 
but to confess, and say he was sorry, and give his 
father a chance to forgive him. 


86 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

At last words came. 

“ I ’m sorry, father,” sobbed the boy on his 
father’s bosom. “ I did n’t mean to feel so and 
look so. I don’t know how I could.” 

How tightly those arms held him ! 

“ You know I was angry too, my boy, and did 
wrong speaking to you in that way.” 

“But — but you thought I disobeyed you. I 
went to Mr. Blakeman’s this morning, before ever 
you told me.” 

There, it was all clear now. We will leave them 
together; Gilbert sitting in the old, carved arm- 
chair, with the boy in his arms, the brown hair 
brushed by the gray beard, their eyes shining like 
stars after rain. 


CHAPTER VIL 


AN UGLY STRANGER. 

T~^ORRIE,” said John, one day, “I wish you’d 
pay a visit to my mousehole.” 

“ Oh, I never could get up there, John ! It ’s as 
much as I can do to go straight ahead. The world 
I live in is just four feet and two inches deep. I 
can’t get my head up out of it, except when I go 
upstairs, or when somebody lifts me.” 

This was rather a queer remark for a child of 
ten ; but Dorrie was in some things far older than 
her mother. 

“Well,” said John conclusively, “that’s just 
the way you ’ll get up into my mousehole. In 
the first place, it ’s a sort of upstairs ; and in the 
second place, your father will lift you up.” 

“ He is n’t tall enough.” 

“ He can stand on a box.” 

“But I shall be afraid.” 

“ With me up there with you ? ” 

“ Is it big enough for two 

“You see ! ” 


87 


88 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

“ Let ’s ask mother.” 

Martha was willing, if her husband should say it 
were safe and would lift her up and down. The 
two children accordingly set out for the shop, 
Dorrie walking demurely with her human and 
wooden canes, and John keeping a sharp lookout 
for teams, rude boys, or stray dogs of uncertified 
character. 

Terry pattered along in the rear, as usual, full 
of importance. 

John was especially glad to have something 
pleasant to do on this particular afternoon, because 
he was very lonesome. Just one week before, his 
father had left him to go to a town some distance 
away in the country. Work had been offered him 
on a large public building that was going up, and 
as it would be a steady job for at least six weeks, 
with sure and generous pay, he felt that he ought 
not to neglect the opportunity. It was the first 
separation between him and his boy, and a hard 
trial to both ; but they made mutual promises to 
write and to be brave, and planned a grand excur- 
sion down the harbor to celebrate the father’s 
return, which would be some time in the latter 
part of July, if nothing unforeseen should detain 
him, 


An Ugly Stranger. 


89 


John indicated to Dorrie various points of inter- 
est on their walk, which seemed to him about half 
its usual length, although their progress was neces- 
sarily slow. 

They were within a few doors of the shop, when 
an ill-conditioned cur, who had been lying on the 
sidewalk with one eye open, got upon his feet and, 
with an ugly, snarly bark, began making short 
rushes toward them. 

Dorrie turned white as a sheet, and clung to 
John so that he could not leave her nor use his 
arms. Matters really began to look rather serious, 
when a black-and-tan streak shot past them, and 
Terry, with a shrill yelp, flung himself, teeth, 
claws, and what little body he had, full into the 
face and eyes of the strange dog. 

The latter fell back — to Terry’s relief, no doubt 
— and, with a glance at John, who by this time 
had got possession of Dorrie’s cane and was 
brandishing it in the air, slunk away with his tail 
between his legs ; while Terry the valiant came 
capering back to his young master, wriggling all 
over with exultation at his exploit and, possibly, 
at his own fortunate escape. 

“I ’ve seen that dog before,” said John, patting 
Terry and giving Dorrie her cane. It ’s the 


90 


The Boyhood of John Kent. 


same one that fought poor little Terry the first 
time I ever set eyes on him. Don’t you know ? 
I told you about it.” 

“Yes, I remember,” said Dorrie faintly. “He 
is a dreadful dog. Do let ’s hurry, John. He 
might come back.” 

“No fear of that,” laughed John. “Terry 
scared him out of his wits — did n’t you, good 
boy } But here we are anyway.” 

On entering the shop, John was by no means 
pleased to find Mr. Wilson talking with the dark- 
browed owner of the dog. He recalled the face 
perfectly ; for one of his gifts was never to forget 
a face upon which his attention had once been 
fixed. The man, however, seemed to have no 
recollection of him, but giving a final direction of 
some sort, over which the carpenter appeared 
perplexed, he left the shop and slouched away, 
followed by the setter. 

At first Mr. Wilson did not seem much pleased 
with the children’s visit. His manner was pre- 
occupied, and he hardly listened to their merry 
greetings. At length, however, his easy good- 
nature came back, and he was ready to listen 
to their request that his little daughter should 
be placed in the “ mousehole.” 


An Ugly Stranger. 91 

He shook his head, but Dorrie looked so dis- 
appointed that he yielded and began looking 
about the shop for some means to get her up 
so high without danger.- 

There was an old chest under the bench which 
the two carpenters used for storing extra tools 
and incomplete bits of nice work. This he pulled 
out and dragged under John’s lofty perch. The 
boy was already up, awaiting his visitor. 

Mr. Wilson took Dorrie in his arms and care- 
fully mounted the chest. By this means he was 
able to lift her up to the outside shelf, from which 
point she could take care of herself. 

John had prepared a nice couch of shavings, 
covered with an old coat, for her. He himself 
did not share the mousehole with her, after all, 
it was so small. But he sat on the shelf with 
his feet hanging over, and talked with her as she 
lay snugly in the little wooden cave. 

While they were chatting, the owner of the 
ugly dog came back. He brought some rolls of 
paper with him, which appeared to be plans of 
a building. Wilson bent over them, and the two 
men discussed some point long and earnestly. 

John could not hear what they were talking 
about, but the stranger, who was addressed as 


92 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

Hurlburt, seemed to be urging the carpenter to 
do something which he was unwilling to carry out. 

As they talked, however, their voices grew 
louder. 

“ What difference does it make ? ” said Hurl- 
burt. Somebody will do it, if you don’t. The 
only thing you ’ll get by it will be to lose a good 
job, and set me tramping all over the city again 
for another carpenter. If you ’d ’a’ said the word 
the other day when I spoke to you about it — 
Get out. Whelp ! ” — with a savage kick at his 
ill-favored dog, who was beginning to make a 
slow, bristling approach toward Terry — “I could 
’a’ told ’em about it, and that would ’a’ settled the 
business.” 

John jumped down, caught Terry in his arms, 
and climbed to his perch again like a squirrel. 

“There,” he whispered to Dorrie, “I did that 
for two reasons. First, so that that ugly creature 
should n’t hurt Terry, and then I wanted to be 
sure that they knew we were here. Now it will 
do no harm to listen all we want to.” 

“ What nonsense you talk ! ” Hurlburt was say- 
ing, with a sneer. “ One piece of wood ’s like 
another, and one room ’s like another. Don’t a 
church make as good a blaze as a ” — 


Afi Ugly Stranger. 


93 


“Hush! hush!” interposed Wilson nervously. 
“ There ’s no need of talking this over, Mr. Hurl- 
burt. I don’t see how I can do it. Not till my 
partner gets home, at any rate.” 

“Your partner!” began the other, with a 
sneer, but Wilson stopped him by a glance and 
a gesture toward the mousehole, and the two 
attentive little mice at its entrance. 

“ Well, I ’ll tell you one thing,” said Hurlburt, 
bringing his fist down hard on the bench ; “ if 
you go back on your agreement ” — 

“ I never agreed.” 

“ I say you did ! And if you don’t carry out 
what you gave the company to understand you ’d 
do, you ’ll have to pay for it. Did n’t you take 
five dollars we handed you, in this very shop, 
me and O’ Callaghan ” 

“Yes; but that was only” — 

“Never mind what it was for. You took it, 
and that binds you to the contract,” asserted 
the man, with an oath that made Dorrie stop 
her ears. 

Then, fearing he had gone too far, he added in 
more conciliatory tones, “ Don’t be a fool, Wilson. 
We’ve had a meeting, and the directors have 
voted to employ you to fit up the shop, and to 


94 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

pay you a thousand dollars to do it in good shape. 
There ’ll be a good two hundred and fifty or three 
hundred dollars clear profit. You might as well 
have it as the next man. If you go back on us, 
we ’ve got to call another meeting, hunt up another 
man, and spend a lot of money, which you might 
have to pay for breaking your contract.” 

I told you I never made a contract,” said the 
carpenter weakly. 

“ There ’d be a lawsuit, anyway, and that would 
cost you something, whether you beat or not, be- 
sides hurting your business. Think it over, and 
let me know to-morrow. I ’ll drop in. Come 

along, you ” But I will not try to put his 

language on paper. He lounged out of the shop. 

“ O papa, he ’s left his papers behind him ! 
John, do make him take them — such a dreadful 
man ! Papa, are n’t you glad he ’s gone ? ” 

John jumped down, and was about to run after 
the man with the plans, but Mr. Wilson inter- 
posed, almost crossly, and tossed them up on a 
high rack, behind the handles of a lot of chisels. 

‘‘ Don’t bother me now, John,” he said. “ I 
wish you ’d take Dorrie home. I ’m busy, and 
besides, I don’t like to have her down here, 
among rough men.” 


An Ugly Strajiger. 


95 


John secretly wondered if the ugly stranger 
would have used such language in the presence 
of his father, and, if so, what would have been 
the result. He was pretty certain it would not 
have been he and Dorrie that would have had to 
leave the shop. 

However, obedience was, as we have seen, a 
strong point with him ; and he silently helped 
Dorrie down into her father’s arms and then 
walked away with her, wondering much at what 
he had seen and heard. 

Dorothy, poor child, evidently felt humiliated 
by the shabby figure her father had cut in that 
afternoon’s episode. 

“ I never want to go into that shop again,” she 
said, with .trembling lip, if that ’s the kind of 
men ” — 

“Oh, it isn’t,” protested John, eagerly. “I 
never saw anybody like that in the shop before. 
And if my father had only been there ” — 

He stopped suddenly as he saw the crimson fly 
to his little comrade’s cheek. 

A proud tear slowly rolled down. She half- 
withdrew her hand from* his arm, hopped help- 
lessly for a minute, struck her foot against the 
curbing, and would have fallen had John not 
held her up. 


96 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

“O Dorrie!” he said repentantly, with all the 
dismay a man feels when a woman refuses to trust 
his support, “ I did n’t mean anything by that. 
Only, only, you see” — he stumbled on, “father 
never lets anybody ” — 

Luckily a crowded crossing made a diversion at 
this point, and John, who was in straits between 
honesty and chivalry, was not compelled to finish 
his sentence. 

Rather to the surprise of both children Mr. 
Wilson did not say a word about the new busi- 
ness to Martha that evening ; at least not in 
their hearing ; and as she made no allusion to 
it next day it was pretty clear that she had not 
been consulted in the mysterious affair which 
concerned her husband and the “ugly-dog man” 
as Dorrie persisted in calling Mr. Hurlburt. 

It was equally plain, however, that the matter 
had not been dismissed from the carpenter’s mind. 
He looked worn and anxious when he came home 
from the shop at night, and spoke irritably to 
Dorrie, when she was responsible for some slight 
mishap at table. 

Her eyes filled with tears as she left her seat, 
and taking her crutch, which she now rarely used, 
limped away to her bed. 


An Ugly Stranger, 


97 


That night John had a strange dream. Find- 
ing Mr. Wilson poor company — Martha never 
understood him beyond the realm of bread-and- 
milk — and missing his father more than ever, 
he had waited a little while, disconsolately, for 
Dorrie to come down ; then, seeing that she had 
really gone to bed, he followed her example, and 
saying good night to the carpenter and his wife, 
passed through the long bare hall and upstairs 
to his little garret corner in the farthest wing. 

Mrs. Wilson, it should in justice be observed, 
had offered to make up a bed for Dorrie in her 
own room and let John occupy Dorrie’ s while 
Gilbert Kent was away from home. But the 
boy had preferred his own corner, where, some- 
how, he felt nearer his father. 

It is a curious fact that the dearer a friend is to 
us the better we can do without him. Without 
his physical presence to our senses, I mean. If 
Dorrie had gone away for a week, John would 
have had hard work not to cry; and at any 
rate would have felt leagues and ages removed 
from her, though she were only at the other end 
of the city. But with his father it was a different 
matter. There was a certain fine sympathy be- 
tween them which was triumphant over time and 


98 The Boyhood of John Kent, 

space. They were always in each other’s pres- 
ence; and John would have blushed quite as 
guiltily to have spoken aloud an unseemly word 
in the loneliest Arctic solitude as in the veritable 
hearing of the man who still stood to him very 
much in the place of God. 

Accordingly, when John crept into his bed and 
listened to the far-off roar of the city streets, now 
dying away in the dusk, the sharp notes of steam- 
whistles from the harbor, mellowed and soft- 
ened by distance, — as his dream-fancies began 
to float in through the open, netted window (for 
it was a sultry night) and weave mazy, misty 
fabrics around the walls and projecting rafters 
above him, — there was a constant and vivid 
sense of his father’s life and love breathing 
around him. 

For if God stationed his angels at the head and 
the foot of the bed that night, he knew — as when 
the Galilaean peasant went apart so often on the 
shadowy slopes of the Palestine hills to pray — 
that no more blessed thought could they bring 
the boy than “Father.” 

But the hurrying, worrying, care-taking thoughts 
of the preceding day claim a position too by our 
bedsides at night. If the sleeper has chosen 


An Ugly Stranger, 


99 


them as his companions by day, let him not com- 
plain that they rejoin him in his dreams. 

John had not been asleep more than an hour 
before he began to twist and turn uneasily. 

He dreamed he was walking in a great meadow, 
where the grass was fresh and green, brooks ran 
on every side and in every direction, uphill and 
down. Terry was with him, gamboling about 
and dashing in and out of the brooks. 

Before long he noticed that Dorrie was beside 
him, but it seemed that it troubled her a great 
deal to walk in the grass, which grew taller and 
more wiry as they went on. 

And now a little streamlet ran between them. 
It was very small, but it worried him. 

“ Come over, Dorrie ! ” he called, in his dream. 

But she laughed and limped along through the 
tall grass. 

They came to a high mountain, and began to 
climb its sides, and, as they climbed, the brook, 
instead of dwindling nearer its source, became 
larger and fiercer, so that he could no longer 
stretch his hand across and touch her. 

“ Come over, come over, Dorrie ! ” he called. 
But the child only waved her little hand to him. 
She no longer laughed, and if she spoke her 


lOO The Boyhood of John Kent. 

words were lost in the roar of the stream, which 
was now a brawling torrent, ever growing broader 
and fiercer as they climbed. 

How he longed to help his little comrade ! 
He could see her stumble, and bruise her delicate 
hands and her one poor foot against the stones ; 
but he could not go to her. All he could hope 
for was that he could somehow get round the 
source of the stream. 

And now a shadowy form appeared beside her ; 
it was the “ ugly-dog man,” with his beast snarl- 
ing beside him. 

Dorrie turned and held out her hands beseech- 
ingly; but her own father seized them and held 
them down. 

John knew that he must get round that stream 
or she would die. He pressed onward, higher 
and higher, till there was no trace of tree or 
grass or living thing about him ; only cold gray 
rocks. And from one of these sprang the full 
might of the stream. 

He dragged himself heavily up on its flat top, 
and turning, looked for Dorrie. She was nowhere 
to be seen. 

Neither she nor either of her companions. 
But close beneath the rock, in the darknesa, he 


Afi Ugly Stranger. 


lOI 


could hear the two men talking in low tones. 
They must then have killed her. 

With his very blood standing still with horror, 
he leaned over the edge of the rock, and — 
awoke ! 

His first thought, as consciousness came rush- 
ing in upon him, was that intense feeling of relief 
that accompanies awakening from a bad dream ; 
his first physical sensation was one of cold. 

The next moment he was bewildered by hearing 
the two men talking again in guarded tones, be- 
neath him. Could he have sunk once more 
beneath the smooth flood of sleep, from which he 
had emerged for a moment } 

With an effort he opened his eyes, and stared 
about him in amazement. Dreaming still No; 
the wind that blew his little nightgown about his 
bare legs was real. The twinkling stars were real, 
and so were the voices. Instead of looking upon 
the familiar walls of his room, his gaze wandered 
helplessly off into the black night. Beside him 
was a wooden post. Below, in the garden, was a 
whitish, motionless, hairy creature, which he recog- 
nized, with a thrill of repugnance, as the ill-bred 
setter ; and — yes — leaning against the fence just 
beyond was his master, talking earnestly with 


102 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

another dark figure, which could only be Mr. 
Wilson. 

How he got there he did not know ; but beyond 
a doubt John Kent was at that moment in the 
little cupola, with the night air breathing about 
him and the trapdoor shut below. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

MIDNIGHT. 

T T 7ITH a thrill of terror John realized that, 
* ^ by some strange volition which he could 
not call his own, he had left his comfortable bed, 
had crept down to the dark, bare hall below, and 
up the steep, narrow flight to the cupola, while he 
was sound asleep. He was terrified, not only by 
the thought that another step, an imaginary leap, 
in his dream, toward Dorrie, might have hurled 
him headlong to the roof and ground below ; but 
still more by the eerie sensation of a second self 
which had led him there. He felt he had been, to 
use a common phrase, ^‘beside himself”; and he 
did not know what his other, unreasoning, sleep- 
walking self might do next. 

He was rather relieved, than otherwise, to hear 
the voices below him, and would have called out 
in another moment, had not the men separated 
while he was still gathering his senses : Hurlburt 
picking his way out of the alley, with Whelp ; and 

103 


104 Boyhood of John Kent. 

Thomas Wilson entering his own door and softly 
closing it behind him. 

The night wind was cool, though not danger- 
ously so, and John bethought himself of returning 
to his bed. As he stooped toward the door, he 
suddenly remembered his father’s caution. The 
trap could not be opened from the upper side. 

There was no way to des9end to the roof, as 
the cupola was seven feet, clear, above the ridge- 
pole. And had he dropped safely upon it, he 
could have got no further. Nothing was left but 
to cry out and rouse the Wilsons, which he was 
unwilling and a little bit ashamed to do, or to stay 
where he was all night. 

In truth, he was not much dismayed at the 
prospect before him. Mrs. Wilson, he knew, 
would be early stirring ; ,and the milkman would 
be even earlier. John laid a plan by which he 
would get the man into the house, and up the 
stairs to let him down. To be sure, it was not so 
warm as in his bed, and occasionally a little wiry 
trumpet-tone in his ear would remind him that it 
was the mosquito’s harvest time. As, however, the 
gentle breeze was south, he was comfortably warm, 
especially as, by some freak of his dream, he had 
drawn on his stockings before leaving his room. 


Midnight. 


105 


Overhead the elm, now in full leafage, stretched 
its protecting boughs, and through the sleepy, 
nodding leaves he could catch the twinkles of 
stars. 

The night was very still. He heard a far-off 
clock striking the hour, and listened. How long 
it was in telling its story ! 

“ Seven — eight — nine — ten — eleven. ’ ’ 

Eleven o’clock. In four hours there would be 
a gray hope of dawn in the east. Two hours 
later the milkman might be expected. 

The roar of the city had died away, so that the 
faintest rustle of the leaves above him could be 
heard. 

John curled up in one comer of the cupola, and 
wondered what his father was dreaming. He 
dozed a little himself, but was almost afraid to go 
to sleep, lest his invisible shadow-self should lead 
him into new dangers. He was roused by the 
clocks striking again — twelve, this time. 

Have you ever been out in the streets alone at 
midnight } If you have not, close beside you, at 
your very door, lies a region of which you have 
never dreamed, or which, at least, is to you but a 
dream. Its bounds are ill-defined ; it stretches 
away into space inimitably ; it is thronged with 


io6 The Boyhood of John KenU 

silent shapes, in whose midst you, not one of 
them, would be the ghost. 

Close beside you, yet unknown ; at your very 
door, yet farther from you than the steppes of 
Caucasus — this midnight city. 

In spots where you are accustomed to see only 
fair daylight are uneasy, shifting shadows and 
gloomy folds of darkness ; while the yellow, flar- 
ing gaslight, or the white dazzle of the electric 
ball of fire, throws an uncanny light into many a 
nook and corner that has lain hidden in broad 
noonday. Close beside you, but unknown. 

The silence of the busy streets where the 
wheels of trade and travel have rolled and rattled, 
and shouts of men and cries and laughter of chil- 
dren have answered each other above the din, all 
day long, is even more strange and terrible than 
the shadows and lights. To stand in one of those 
streets alone at midnight, with no sound coming 
from the thoroughfare in its sleep save an occa- 
sional muffled roll of wheels, bearing some belated 
traveler, or hurrying physician summoned to a 
bedside of sudden anguish, is like sitting beside 
one in the silence of the sick chamber, who is not 
dead, but stricken dumb and motionless in the 
midst of active life by that terrible disease which 


Mid^iight. 


107 


touches three times before it destroys, playing 
with the half-benumbed sufferer for years be- 
tween its first and last visit. 

And as the long, troubled breath of the help- 
less man, at intervals, through the weary night 
watches, falls upon your ear, so does the dull 
roll upon the distant pavement, dying away into 
waiting silence, in the city streets alone at 
midnight. 

Have you read of the palace where every man, 
woman, and child suddenly fell asleep .? and did 
you try, when a child yourself, to conceive the 
feelings of the prince, as he trod those dusty halls 
and looked upon the prostrate forms of knight 
and lady, of page, butler, and hound 

Close beside you, during a third part of your 
whole life, lies such a palace, such a country. 
What would you think were the sun suddenly to 
go down at noon, leaving only the blackness of 
the earth-shadowed sky behind it ; and far and 
near, thousands of human beings — yes, and the 
very cattle, the brute life that clings to the higher 
existence of man — should yield up its conscious- 
ness, falling back into deep sleep; the tangled 
and knotted meshes of business relaxing, and the 
uproar of the morning struck dumb } Yet it is 


io8 The Boyhood of John Kent, 

through such a city that you may walk alone, any 
night of your life. For it is close beside you, yet 
unknown. 

But not all are asleep. As in the lowermost 
caves of the earth strange, pallid reptiles are 
found, with hideous forms and eyeless sockets, 
for lack of the sweet air and light of outer day, 
so are there evil things that creep from their 
hiding places at night, and slink through the 
streets and byways, on unspeakable errands of 
shame and crime. In the great cave of the night 
sky they live, rejoicing — with what joy! — in 
their sunless existence. 

By day their hands are unnerved, they cower in 
dark chambers and lurking places ; but the gloom 
of night is a stimulant to them ; they lift their 
heads and drink it in fiercely, until brain and hand 
are ready for deeds as dark as the hour and the 
place where they are committed. Not all the 
dreams of the great city are of green pastures 
and still waters ; it has its nightmares and visions 
of horror. 

As John Kent counted the twelve strokes of 
the distant bell, he could not help feeling a grim 
sense of terror steal over him. He had never 
been out-of-doors at midnight since he stood in 


Midnight. 


109 


the snow by the gust-blown fire, while they bore 
his dead mother from the wrecked train. The 
recollection came back vividly to him, and he 
longed for some living, waking, human creature 
for companionship as he never had before. 

In spite of every effort, the fright grew upon 
him ; it would not be shaken off. He tried to say 
his prayers, but God seemed far away on the sunny 
side of the world. It would have been an intense 
relief to have seen even the lowering face of Hurl- 
hurt among the shadows on the ground below him. 

Midnight. He recalled a story that Martha had 
foolishly told him a few days before, of a huge, 
misshapen Thing which was said to creep about 
after dark, seeking a fearful kind of food. Its feet 
were broad and soft, and so damp that they some- 
times left slimy tracks which were found in the 
morning, where the creature had passed. It lived 
beneath the decaying wharves, and in foul, de- 
serted cellars, never emerging except on the dark- 
est night. 

It is probable that Martha, when a child, had 
heard some sensational speaker describing Crime, 
or Evil, under the allegory of the frightful beast, 
and that the image, deeply imprinted on her young 
imagination, remained as she had repeated it to 
John. 


no The Boyhood of John Kent, 

When he had heard the story in broad daylight, 
he had laughed at it, even to the point of offend- 
ing Martha ; but now it seemed true, and as he 
glanced hurriedly around over the neglected tract 
in which the house stood, he shivered, not so much 
with cold as with the apprehension of seeing that 
dark, nameless blot of a Thing creeping towards 
him. 

At that moment his heart almost stopped beat- 
ing. Beyond a doubt something was stirring in 
the rooms below. 

He heard a certain creak which he knew was 
caused by the lower door which opened into the 
hall. Then a soft, irregular tread upon the stairs. 

It came to him in a moment that one of the 
creatures that Martha had described had its den 
in the cellar under that very house, which cellar 
he had never visited, and of the existence of 
which he had not been sure. 

But of course there must be a cellar, and some 
secret way of getting out into that lonely, unfur- 
nished hall. From there the easiest and, in fact, 
the only way for it to get out was to go through 
the cupola, from which, in the dead of night, it 
could let its big, soft body down upon the roofs, 
and from there to the ground. 


Midnight, 


III 


As these thoughts flashed through the boy’s 
mind, he watched the trapdoor with the fascina- 
tion of terror. A thunderclap could not have 
drawn his gaze from that dark patch in the floor 
of the cupola. And there was literally no escape 
for him. He never thought of crying out ; and if 
he had, it is doubtful if he could have spoken. 

One step at a time he could hear the great 
splay feet ascending the stairs, which creaked 
and snapped beneath its weight. Would it never 
reach the top } 

Hark ! Now it was pushing about with its head 
and paws, softly, softly. 

And at last the door moved. It opened a half- 
inch and then paused, showing the crack of dark- 
ness on three sides. 

John did not faint, but he felt as if he were 
dying. Every particle of strength left his body. 
He could not move hand or foot, or gasp one word, 
any more than he could fly. 

With eyes flxed upon that opening, behind which 
all the nightmared, sleep-walking horror of that 
night had concentrated, and was watching him in 
turn, he waited. 

The door trembled, rose a little, stopped again, 
then opened slowly to its full height. 


1 12 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

And from the stairway no black and formless 
monster looked up at him, but a little white face, 
with lips parted, eyes wide open, and golden hair 
falling about it. 

“John!” 

“Dorrie!” 


\ 




CHAPTER IX. 

THOMAS Wilson’s new job. 

S one result of John’s exposure to the night 



^ air, a severe cold kept him away from the 
shop and within doors for the next three days. 

When he heard Dorrie’s story of that night, 
and her part in its adventures, he praised her 
bravery in such unmeasured terms that the child’s 
heart beat high with happiness. 

She had waked up, she said, in the middle of 
the night, and before turning her head on the 
pillow to go to sleep again, had glanced out of 
her window, from which there was a full view of 
the cupola. A startled second glance assured her 
that there was something odd about the structure. 
She rubbed her eyes. Yes, there was a small 
white figure seated in one corner of it. 

For a moment Dorrie was very much frightened, 
even to the extent of putting her head under the 
bedclothes. Then it occurred to her that not 
only were there no such things as ghosts, anyway. 


113 


1 14 'The Boyhood of John Kent. 

but that if there were, such a very little, young 
ghost could n’t hurt her. 

So she ventured to peep again. The figure 
had risen, and was looking down into the yard 
and beyond. (John was half-ashamed to tell what 
he was looking for ; and to her credit be it said, 
Mrs. Wilson was wholly ashamed of herself when 
he confessed the final cause of his terrors.) 
There was something in the attitude of the little 
ghost which reminded Dorothy of her playmate 
and guardian. She could not signal it, on account 
of the netting across the window. She slipped 
out of bed, crept from the room without waking 
her mother; then downstairs and across the bare 
hall, her heart thumping at every mouse’s squeak 
in the wainscoting, until she reached the narrow 
steps leading to the cupola, by which time she had 
got herself into almost as uncomfortable a fright 
as had John above her. • 

She had ventured to open the door, “just the 
least mite,” and so discovered that it was really 
John. 

It was the second time he had been rescued 
from a high place by one of God’s angels who had 
been given charge over him : the first time it was 
his father in the shop ; the second, it was crippled 
Dorrie in the cupola at night. 


Thomas Wilson s New Job. 1 1 5 

By the time the boy had related his adventures 
and his fears of the night-roaming creature, he 
could laugh heartily over them ; but it was months 
before he could find himself unexpectedly alone at 
night, without a sudden sinking of the heart, and 
a nameless fright which could not be driven away, 
save by the thought of Dorrie and his father, and 
his Father. 

Hurlburt did not appear about the house again, 
and John saw no reason for speaking of the con- 
ference of which he had been an unwilling wit- 
ness. Nor did he relate his dream to any one. 
He came very near writing the whole story to his 
father, but concluded that it would worry him and 
make him do his work less well without doing any 
good. So he kept eyes and ears open, and was 
“seen, but not heard.” Sometimes Dorrie would 
look into the heights of his brown eyes from the 
depths of her blue ones, and ask him in an anxious 
whisper if he thought the dog-man was troubling 
her father. At which John would only shake his 
head and answer that he did n’t know. 

Every morning, in these days when his father 
was away, the boy studied by himself or in Doro- 
thy’s company. For a whole week after their un- 
pleasant experience he did not go near the shop at 


1 1 6 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

all. When at last he reentered it, he was struck 
with astonishment at the business going on there. 
Two new assistants had been hired, and the sound 
of hammer, mallet, and saw was constant. The 
shop, as well as the sidewalk outside, was encum- 
bered with piles of black walnut and other costly 
lumber. Window-sashes and panels were stacked 
around posts and against the wall ; everybody was 
working hard, in unsmiling silence, as if life or 
death depended on the speedy completion of the 
job in hand. 

In the midst of these disordered beginnings 
stood Thomas in his shirt sleeves, the perspiration 
standing on his forehead, and his brows knotted in 
a careworn and hunted expression. 

It flashed across John’s brain that the men were 
hurrying to get something done before his father 
should return, and that he ought to write about it 
at once. For was not his father’s name upon the 
sign outside the shop .? 

Still, he disliked telling tales, and resolved to 
wait until he should know that some harm was i 
really being done. 

Mr. Wilson gave him a careless nod as he en- 
tered, but paid no further attention to him. John 
quietly made his way to the end of the shop and 
in another moment was in his mousehole. 


Thomas Wilsons New Job, 1 1 7 

After resting a while he descended once more, 
and using one or two little tools that his father 
had bought for him, busied himself in construct- 
ing a slide, by which he could close the mouth 
of his den at pleasure, leaving only a narrow 
transverse crack for air and light. 

He could not finish his portcullis that day, but 
hid his pieces of board in the hole. The next 
afternoon he resumed and completed his work. 
Retiring triumphantly into the recesses of his 
lofty burrow, he closed it and lay back in the 
shadows, watching the bright line of light across 
its mouth. No one from the outside would have 
guessed his presence, so cleverly had he con- 
structed his door. The little platform now looked 
like a mere shelf for storing patterns. 

Before long a familiar voice fell on his ear, and 
putting his eye to his loophole he found that he 
was not mistaken ; it was Hurlburt, together with 
another man, much more flashily dressed and 
redder in the face. 

As Mr. Wilson knew that he was there, and 
John did not care to make a scene by emerging 
from his wall like the harlequin in a pantomime, 
he concluded to remain where he was. The con- 
versation which followed shed a good deal of light 


1 1 8 The Boyhood of John Kent, 

upon circumstances which had puzzled him not 
a little. 

That we may have even a better understanding 
than had John of Thomas Wilson’s situation at 
this time, it is necessary to give a brief glance at 
his life twenty years before. 

When the roar of the guns that opened on Fort 
Sumter sent their sullen echoes rolling through 
the north, Thomas was one of the first to enlist 
in the loyal army. He marched south with a New 
Hampshire regiment, and served bravely from Bull 
Run to Appomatox. At the close of the war, 
when the country was rejoicing over the downfall 
of slavery, Wilson returned to his home village, 
himself a slave. The moment his friends saw him 
they glanced at each other pityingly, and said, 
Poor fellow ! ” 

Then the war began over again for him. He 
fought many a battle more terrible to him than 
Gettysburg or Antietam, a veritable “ Battle of the 
Clouds,” and at last, worn but triumphant, stood 
erect, a man again, without the scent of liquor 
upon him. None but those who have fought the 
same fight, or have seen some dear friend choking, 
fainting, struggling in that same fearful contest, 
can tell through what agony, what a valley of 


Thomas Wilson s New Job. 119 

the shadow of death, he passed, before he was 
safe. 

He had not fought alone. Before he left home 
in response to Abraham Lincoln’s first call, he had 
looked into the eyes of a rosy-cheeked lass, a 
neighbor’s daughter, and although he had spoken 
no word and asked none that should bind them 
formally together — for she was but seventeen — 
he had borne the recollection of that last tearful 
moment, and the touch of her soft, trembling hand, 
through four years of wild camp life, and had 
brought the picture home unsmirched. If a young 
man carry in his mind a pure, sweet image, it will 
go hard but he will keep the casket undefiled as 
well as the treasure within. Thomas Wilson came 
home as clean-hearted as a child. 

But oh, the thirst that blazed in his veins, to 
his very finger ends ! The very hand that again 
clasped Martha’s quivered with mad longing for 
whiskey. 

He did the best thing — the best two things — 
that lay in his power. He told God about it, and 
prayed for his help ; then he went straight from 
his closet to Martha’s house, told her about it, and 
prayed for her help. Both his prayers were 
answered. He was a conqueror. 


120 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

When he had gone a full year without touching 
a drop of intoxicating liquor, Martha married him. 
Up to the time when we have seen him at his shop 
and at the old Boston house, he was the same con- 
queror, and would no more have deliberately placed 
a glass of rum or even wine to his lips than he 
would have laid the muzzle of a loaded revolver 
against the same spot and pulled the trigger. 

If you have a Revised Version of the New Tes- 
tament at hand, or better still, if you read the 
musical and unfailing Greek, look at the thirteenth 
verse of the fourth chapter of St. Luke. “Until 
a fitting season ” ; that is what the tempter looked 
forward to, and bided his time for, as he unfolded 
his black pinions — nay, I do not think the Devil 
can fly, even on sooty wings — as he slunk away 
from the grand, simple, august Being to whom he 
had whispered his evil suggestions. 

As in the Palestine desert, and upon the sublime 
mountain heights, so in the commonplace of mod- 
ern city life, the same Tempter waits “for a fitting 
season.” When Thomas Wilson bade Martha and 
Dorrie good-by one sunny morning, stepping 
lightly down the path and out into the streets on 
his way to the shop, he whistled a few bars of an 
old war tune, “The girl I left behind me,” and 


Thomas Wilsons New Job. 1 2 1 

walked along the crowded sidewalk, smiling over 
old and sweet memories, all unconscious that the 
“ season ” had come. 

Could we foresee the conflicts into which our 
dear ones march so gayly, every day of our lives, 
how we should shudder and weep for sympathy, 
and go down on our knees in agonized prayer 
for the arm of the Almighty, the God of battles, 
to be around them, as the women of both north 
and south wept and prayed a generation ago, 
when the gray or blue uniforms disappeared 
down the dusty street and the last echoes of 
martial music died away, leaving the half-homes, 
the helpless, aching hearts behind ! 

That morning Martha, catching her husband’s 
cheerfulness, sang at her work, while the Prince 
of darkness, crouching behind the bold, reckless 
eyes of Ralph Hurlburt, Thomas Wilson’s old 
comrade in Company B, exulted fearfully that 
the fitting season ” for his ruin was at hand. 

The first words which Ralph spoke after the 
greeting were familiar to the other’s ear. 

What ’ll you take, Tom ? ” 

Wilson blushed hotly. 

Thanks, old fellow ; I — I ” — 

‘‘ Sworn off, eh ? Oh, well, you ’ll come round 


122 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

before long. What are you doing for a living 
nowadays } ” 

“ Hammer and saw,” said Wilson, relieved to 
have the, former subject disposed of, even by a 
careless sneer. 

“ Humph. I ’m in something better than car- 
pentering any day.” 

‘‘What ’s that } ” 

Thomas did not like his old comrade as well as 
he used to on Virginia soil. The first flush of 
feeling on meeting a fellow-soldier having worn 
off, the man seemed to him coarse and low. 
There was something brutal and untrustworthy 
in his face. His lips fell as naturally into a 
sneer as a baby’s into a smile. 

“Well,” said Hurlburt slowly, in answer to the 
other’s last question, “if you ’re one of those 
teetotalers, perhaps you would n’t be inter- 
ested to know.” And after his oath, he blew a 
long whiff of smoke from his cigar. 

“All right,” said Thomas cheerfully, “perhaps 
I should n’t. Good-by, old fellow — here ’s my 
tent. Drop in some time.” 

With which rather lukewarm invitation he gave 
a laughing military salute, and entering the shop, 
closed the door behind him. 


Thomas Wilson s New Job. 123 

For some reason he did not care to mention to 
Gilbert Kent, who was there before him, his re- 
discovered acquaintance ; especially after John 
had come running in, as we have seen, with 
the story of the first exciting and nearly fatal 
encounter of Terry, then unnamed, with Ralph’s 
ill-tempered follower. Whelp. 

It was some time before the ex-soldier returned 
or saw Wilson again. The latter was rather glad 
than sorry for this, and never alluded to Hurlburt 
before his partner or his family. 

One afternoon, a little while before Gilbert and 
his son moved from Mrs. Roberts’, the two went 
home to the boarding-house, for some reason, an 
hour or two earlier than usual. 

No sooner had they turned the corner than 
Ralph, who apparently had been watching for 
their departure, approached from the opposite 
direction. Entering the shop he greeted Wilson 
as if nothing had happened, and began to unfold 
a plan in which he wanted the other’s assistance. 

In company with half a dozen other men, some 
of them among the largest tax-payers in the city, 
he had formed a corporation, chartered under the 
laws of the Commonwealth, as “The Open Hand 
Supply Company,” licensed to do business as 


124 Boyhood of John Kent. 

victuallers and keepers of a restaurant in a 
certain much-frequented locality in East Boston. 

“ What we propose to do is this/’ explained 
Hurlburt, warming up to his subject: ^Hhe regu- 
lar old-fashioned saloon is gone by. We leave 
that to a low class of customers. Now the ‘ cof- 
fee houses,’ that they are making so much talk 
about, are cutting out the saloons everywhere. 
’Cause why.? They fix them up better. They 
put money into ’em, and give ’em plate glass 
windows, an’ games, an’ big, high-studded rooms ; 
make ’em real pleasant and homelike for young 
fellers that are boardin’ round and have n’t much 
of a place to stay in evenings. That ’s what 
we ’ve got to do,” said Ralph enthusiastically ; 
“make it homelike for ’em. Fit it up regardless 
of cost. Lay ourselves out on gas and coal, 
silver plate and veneering.” 

Thomas was man enough to feel his blood run 
cold, and his fists clenched involuntarily as he 
listened to the scheme. 

) Had Ralph stopped there, the man before him 
would have been safe. But the tempter went on 
^hastily, seeing, perhaps, the disgust in Thomas’ 
honest face. 

i “ Speaking of veneeritig brings me right to the 


Thomas Wilsofi s New Job. 125 

point. The directors have held a meeting and 
appointed me to let out contracts for the fitting 
up. The plumber ’s all fixed and the painters. 
Now for the woodwork. There ’ll be a lot of 
it, and a mighty expensive kind, where ’s a big 
chance for profit. Thinks I, there ’s Tom Wil- 
son — just the man we want! — a good faithful 
workman that knows his business, and won’t 
charge us more than the job’s worth — and here 
I am.” 

Poor Wilson was bewildered. All the manli- 
ness in him, that had fought its hundred battles 
and finally won, urged him to reject the offer. 

“ I don’t know,” he faltered, wiping his fore- 
head. “ The fact is, Hurlburt, I have sworn off, 
as you said, and I don’t like to have anything to 
do with helping on the business.” 

“ Oh, come, that ’s all nonsense, and you 

know it. If you don’t do the job, somebody else 
will, and like as not it ’ll be some good-for-noth- 
ing fellow who will drink it all up in three weeks. 
Besides, you have n’t any right to think of your- 
self. There ’s your wife and child. A few hun- 
dred dollars extra on your income this year would 
make a heap of difference in their comfort. Al- 
most buy that little lame girl a carriage.” 


126 The Boyhood of John Kent, 

Thomas winced, and Hurlburt instantly saw 
his advantage. 

“ Don’t decide right off,” he said, with ap- 
parent indifference, as he lighted a fresh cigar 
and started toward the door. “ O’ Callaghan and 
I will see you a day or two later, and you can 
be making up your mind. I could pay you half 
down, by the way, in advance, you know, if you ’d 
like the money for anything special. Perhaps the 
little gal — what ’s her name } Dorothy } — has a 
birthday coming, or something. Good day, old 
chap.” 

“ Good-by.” 

Ralph put his head in at the window. 

“ Guess I would n’t say anything to him about 
it,” with a jerk of his thumb toward Gilbert’s sign. 
“You ’re the only man I want m it. No need of 
dividing profits.” 

The next day he did not return. If he had 
come, Thomas had a flat refusal ready for him. 
The second day passed, and Thomas wished he 
would come that he might refuse him and be done 
with it ; the third day, and the harassed carpenter 
was afraid he would come. That day he came. 

In his company was a smooth-talking com- 
panion, the O’.Callaghan referred to. Between 


Thomas Wilso 7 is New Job. 127 

them they induced Wilson to accept five dollars, 
to invest for them in samples of veneers. 

At the next visit, when John and Dorothy were 
unwilling spectators, Hurlburt frightened his dupe 
into half-subjection by the threat of a suit, as the 
children had heard. 

Now the real fact was that Ralph had invented 
the story of the directors’ meeting, and the ac- 
ceptance of Wilson as contractor for the wood- 
work. Nor was it true, as Hurlburt well knew, 
that the transfer of five dollars, under those 
circumstances, bound the carpenter to under- 
take the job. There can be no contract where 
the minds of the parties have not met, says the 
law. But Wilson, like most men of his condition, 
regarded the law as a most complex and myste- 
rious system, whereby one man’s money could be 
turned over to another in the twinkling of an eye, 
and fortunes would change hands by reason of an 
informality in the dotting of an i or the crossing 
of a t. In real fact, if you ask yourself what is 
the sensible view of any mooted question of per- 
sonal rights or property, ninety-nine times out of 
a hundred you will find that is the law in the 
case. Another phrase for “ common law ” might 
well be “common sense.” 


128 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

But of this Wilson was profoundly ignorant. 
He felt bound, hand and foot, when he went 
home that night to his wife and the children, 
and, when he heard a low whistle of an old 
camp air outside the house late in the evening, 
he accepted Ralph’s visit as part of the in- 
evitable. Soon he began to argue himself into 
believing that he was doing nothing wrong, even 
if it were an entirely voluntary act on his part. 
Ralph’s sophistries did their quiet work. 

“Somebody must do it. If I don’t, another 
will. The only difference will be that he will 
have the money and I won’t. The bar will be 
fitted up just as well. And how am I responsible 
for the use they put it to } A man who manufact- 
ures a pistol is n’t a murderer because in a 
month or two later, perhaps, the deadly shot is 
fired from it. All I do is to put up a certain 
amount of woodwork. It ’s none of my business 
what it ’s used for, any more than I inquire into 
the use of any other article that I make in my 
shop, and sell to a customer.” 

It was a slippery, downhill train of reasoning, 
and Thomas’ descent, after the first drawing back, 
was easy. He ordered the lumber, hired new 
hands, and worked, himself, as he had never 


Thomas Wilsons New Job. 129 

worked before. In his secret heart, as John had 
divined, he wanted to get the job out of his hands 
before Gilbert Kent should return. 

Whether Ralph Hurlburt had at this time delib- 
erately planned the downfall of his old messmate, 
I do not know. It is certain, however, that to a 
man who indulges in any wrongful pursuit it is 
a thorn in the path to see another person hold- 
ing himself conscientiously aloof from the same 
course. The almost inevitable reasoning is : 
“ Let ’s see whether he ’s as good as he seems. 
It ’s all well enough for him to hold his head up, 
pretending to be better than anybody else ; a little 
come-down will do him good. I hate a man who 
looks down on a fellow and rides a high horse. 
Let 's try him.” 

So the snares were laid for poor, foolish Thomas 
Wilson. When he had once put his hand to the 
work he could not withdraw it, nor object to 
Ralph’s frequent presence in the shop. Moreover 
it was necessary for him to visit the new rooms in 
East Boston at the outset, to make certain meas- 
urements and calculations. He steadily refused 
all offers of liquor, though the street was lined 
with shops where it was sold openly. 

One hot day Ralph poured out a glass of lemon- 


130 The Boyhood of Joh7t Kent. 

ade and carelessly passed it to him. He raised it 
to his lips, but before a drop had passed them, he 
lowered the tumbler, looked the man in the eye, 
and walking to the door, poured the lemonade into 
the gutter. Reentering the room, he set the glass 
down without a word, and went home. 

Ralph ground his teeth and swore. The dash 
of whiskey in the cool drink had accomplished 
nothing, he thought ; though he might have 
changed his mind had he seen Thomas Wilson 
cowering in a corner of the ferryboat cabin, shiv- 
ering from head to foot, with clenched fists and 
great beads of perspiration on his forehead. Peo- 
ple thought he was drunk ; and so, in a measure, 
he was. The smell had set him on fire. Half 
the night he walked the floor of his room, telling 
his anxious wife that he had a headache and 
could n’t sleep. 

Ralph, meanwhile, grew more viciously deter- 
mined. 

“Jake,” said he, to an obsequious, unwhole- 
some-looking bartender, “ we must try the side- 
walk dodge. Did Mannheim & Co. send down 
that extra keg } ” 

Jake nodded flabbily, with a wide and unmirth- 
ful smile. The trade were familiar with the gen- 


Thomas Wilson's New Job. 1 3 1 

erosity of the wholesale dealers, who often threw 
in an extra keg of superfine liquor, in dealing with 
a profitable retailer, for the express purpose of 
sprinkling the sidewalk in front of the saloon, that 
the poor wretch who had to pass that way might 
be caught in the fumes and nervelessly stray in, 
past the green baize door, in spite of his good 
resolutions. This is no imaginary horror; investi- 
gate for yourselves, and you will find it to be 
literal, horrible fact. The retail rumseller poisons 
the air with the deadly exhalations of his foul 
stock in trade ; the wholesale dealer and the man- 
ufacturer grow wealthy on the sales ; and the 
Commonwealth — which God save ! — permits the 
city of Boston to seal the license with its own fair 
image of dimpling wave and heaven-pointing 
church spire. There are only two in the chain 
of events who do not grow rich by this hideous 
traffic — the drunkard, shrieking in'his torment of 
delirium, and God, the Father of all. 

“ Give it a good dose, Jake,” said Ralph, with 
an answering leer to the underling’s glance. 
“ We ’ll fetch him to-morrow, sure.” 

“ I must go over to East Boston,” argued 
Thomas Wilson miserably, to himself, late the 
next afternoon. “The whole job must stop if I 


132 


The Boyhood of John Kent, 


don’t get that piece of molding clear in my 
mind. John,” he added aloud, '‘tell Martha, when 
you go back, that I sha’n’t be home before seven. 
Perhaps she ’ll wait supper for me.” 

That was a feeble grasp at something better 
than his trembling resolutions — a thread, which 
he would take over with him, still binding him to 
Martha and Dorrie ; she would be waiting supper 
for him. 

But she waited in vain. For Thomas did not 
come to supper, nor indeed to his home, all that 
night. 


\ 




CHAPTER X. 

A VISIT TO LADY COURTLEY. 

A yTRS. COURTLEY,” said Waldo Pettingill, 
as he seated himself beside that lady one 
evening in Mrs. Roberts’ snug parlor, “ I ’m afraid 
a friend of yours is getting into trouble.” 

Trouble.? What do you mean, Mr. Pettingill .? 
Who is it .? ” 

“ Why, that Mr. Wilkins — Wilbur — What ’s 
his name .? ” 

Mr. Pettingill had a singular inaptitude for re- 
membering names. 

Oh, you mean Mr. Wilson, where the Kents 
live .? I hope he is n’t sick,” said Lady Courtley, 
in troubled tones. 

She had dropped the Evening Transcript, which 
was her one literary dissipation, and was looking 
so earnestly at her companion that it quite un- 
nerved him. 

Why, n-no, to be sure, ma’am. He ’s not sick 
— that is, well — not exactly sick, you know.” 

133 


134 


The Boyhood of John Kent, 


Oh, he 's well, then ? ” 

“Well, not exactly well, as you ’d say.” 

Waldo was at a loss to express himself deli- 
cately. The lady waited for him to untangle him- 
self, well knowing that this was the only road to 
coherency of statement. 

“ In fact,” said Waldo, “I ’m afraid he is occa- 
sionally, only occasionally, you know — and not so 
very then, for that matter. I often see him on 
the ferryboat, nowadays, when he is n’t ; — but 
sometimes he is ” — 

“Well, is what, Mr. Pettingill 

“ Dr — ah — intoxicated, ma’am.” 

Mrs. Courtley gave a start of surprise and 
distress. 

“Are you sure.? You know so many are mis- 
judged.” 

“ I wish — I — ah — was not so sure, I am sure,” 
began Waldo precipitately. Then checked him- 
self on the raveled edge of another tangle of 
words. “ My experience, ma’am, in the — ah — 
line of intoxicated persons is, unfortunately, pretty 
large. They seem to cross a good deal by the 
ferry. And then there’s a place just in the rear 
of our establishment where such persons are fre- 
quently found mornings with their heads very low 


A Visit to Lady Courtley. 


135 


and red ; and how they can manage to sleep with 
nothing over them but tin clipping, and nothing 
under them but damaged cans, I never could see,” 
added the young man, in a tone of mild expos- 
tulation, as if Mrs. Courtley had been warmly 
advocating such furnishings for a bedroom. 

His companion, however, had hardly heard the 
description. 

“ Terrible, terrible ! ” she exclaimed. “ And to 
think of John, and that delicate child Dorothy! 
Has Gilbert Kent come home, do you know, Mr. 
Pettingill } ” 

No, ma’am. Leastwise, he had n’t day before 
yesterday, when I went down to look at Miss 
Dorrie’s sweet peas. And Mrs. Wilson said he 
was n’t expected for two or three weeks yet. He 
had written John that the work took him longer 
than he had thought ’t would.” 

“ And do you think she knows about her hus- 
band’s habits } ” 

I ’m afraid she does, ma’am. Her eyes were 
that red, and Miss Dorrie looked as white and 
peaked as a — chiny vase,” concluded Waldo 
sadly, his eyes wandering vaguely about the room 
in search of an object to compare Dorrie with, 
and finally alighting on a pair of peculiarly 


1 36 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

consumptive and long-waisted Parian vases, on 
Mrs. Roberts’ mantel. 

“ Poor child ! poor child ! I must go and see 
them at once. And yet — When is Mr. Wilson 
at home ” 

‘‘ You can’t tell, nowadays. He ’s liable to 
drop in ’most any time, I guess. Two or three 
times I ’ve got as far as the garden fence and 
then turned round and come back without going 
in, seeing him inside and thinking they would n’t 
perhaps like to have company,” said Mr. Pettin- 
gill, blushing at the acknowledgment of his own 
gentle consideration for his friends. 

Lady Courtley rose and walked slowly up and 
down the room, her companion regarding her with 
sympathy not unmixed with awe. 

“ I don’t know what to do,” she said at length, 
don’t believe, after all, they’d want to see me. 
You were right about company, Waldo.” 

The young man blushed vividly again, to his 
pale eyebrows, which looked positively white 
against the crimson background. This time the 
blush was for pleasure at being admired and at 
being addressed by his first name. 

“Why don’t you write to John, ma’am.? That 
boy ’s so wonderful knowing, that he ’d know what 
to do, I do believe.” 


A Visit to Lady Courtley, 137 

‘‘That’s just what I’ll do. Will you excuse 
me.?” 

She hurried to her room, and in ten minutes 
had the following note written, directed, and 
sealed : — 

My dear yohn Kent, — I hear that a great trouble has 
come to your house. Can I help you or your kind friends in 
anyway? My heart aches for little Dorrie. Please come to 
me a few minutes to-morrow, if possible, and tell me all 
about it. 

Your old friend, 

Augusta Courtley. 

When she reached the parlor, Mr. Pettingill had 
gone out for his constitutional — a matter of 
principle with him. 

Lady Courtley therefore handed the letter to a 
slovenly table girl, asking her if she would kindly 
step out to the corner and mail it. 

The girl was going to a party that night, and 
concluded to put off the mailing of the letter, as 
her time for making her ball toilet was short, until 
she should start out with Michael for the dance. 
So she slipped the letter into the pocket of her 
kitchen gown, while she wiped the supper dishes ; 
then ran upstairs, from basement to attic, bun- 
dled herself out of her everyday calico into her 


138 The Boyhood of John Kent, 

party attire, and having heard Michael’s ring at 
the lower door while she was doing up her hair, 
previous to donning her finery, hurried down to 
her lover, and chatted with him all the way to the 
hall. 

In the meantime Nora, the cook, found the let- 
ter lying on the attic floor, where it had fallen 
from Bridget’s pocket, and placed it on the sill of 
the window, which was open. A puff of wind 
whisked it out ; and that was the last ever seen 
of it. 

Lady Courtley waited anxiously for John all the 
next day, expecting every moment to hear his 
cheery voice outside her door. The second day 
passed without sight of him. On the evening of 
the third she made up her mind to call at the Wil- 
sons’ the following day, at all hazards. But within 
an hour from the time when she had formed her 
resolution, she was forestalled by John himself, 
who knocked at her door just as she had retired 
for the night, it then being after ten o’clock. 

“Wait a minute, dear,” she cried as he an- 
nounced his name. “ I ’ll come right down into 
the parlor. Don’t disturb anybody else, but wait 
for me there.” 

John did as he was bidden. 


A Visit to Lady Courtley. 


139 


A feeble light was burning at the further end of 
the room, which seemed to the boy to have grown 
smaller since he left it. He sat down in one cor- 
ner of a bony, haircloth sofa, and tried to think 
over the events of the last two or three weeks, 
and what had taken place since that house was 
his home. It seemed as if his father must walk 
in through that familiar door, toward which John 
had so often turned with eager anticipation at the 
close of a stormy, dreary afternoon. 

At the Wilsons’, matters had of late gone from 
bad to worse. Martha knew in a moment what 
had detained her husband when he came home 
the morning after his first fall. The signs of dis- 
grace were but too familiar to her ; the uncertain 
step, the trembling hand, the averted glance, the 
baleful scent of the poison — all proclaimed aloud 
that the days of old had returned. 

Dorrie had no idea of the nature of her father’s 
trouble. She was told that he was “not well,” 
and with her little palm tried to cool the hot, 
throbbing forehead. 

For a day or two renewed resolutions and 
pledges kept him out of harm’s way ; then came 
another misstep, and another, until the momen- 
tum became fearful. Even Dorothy at last began 


140 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

to have an inkling of the truth. She would 
watch for her father’s step at night, and turn 
deadly pale as its irregular shuffle told the same 
story, again and again. The child, from an inborn 
delicacy, and loyalty to both father and mother, 
never opened her lips on the subject. She grew 
so slight that it seemed but a breath of harsh 
wind would extinguish the frail spark burning 
behind those two wide open blue eyes. 

She used her crutch now constantly. John 
made up his mind that if matters did not change 
within a few days for the better he would run the 
risk of writing to his father ; though he felt in his 
heart that perhaps even he would be hopeless 
before the terrible disease that was devouring 
Thomas Wilson, body and soul. But before he 
wrote the letter, and threw the burden on his 
father, he would first consult his dear old friend, 
Lady Courtley. 

Thomas had not come home to supper ; and that 
meant, they all knew, his return at midnight bru- 
talized with drink. 

John had sat up playing checkers with Dorrie 
till her bedtime. Then Martha, settling herself 
wearily in her chair, and shading her face with 
her hand from the light, bade the boy good night. 


A Visit to Lady Courtley. 141 

He left the room, but instead of going to his 
own little garret, he put on his cap and hurried 
off to see Lady Courtley. He did not mention 
this errand to Mrs. Wilson beforehand for fear of 
some opposition on her part. 

He had not waited long in Mrs. Roberts’ parlor 
before a soft rustle on the stairs told him of his 
friend’s approach. 

As she entered the room she held out her arms 
to him ; and he, looking into her face, saw that she 
knew the miserable story he had to relate. He 
dropped his head on her arm and burst into tears. 

The lady gently drew him down beside her on 
the sofa, and stroked his brown hair without a 
word. Mrs. Courtley was not one of those people 
whose stroking makes you nervous. 

It did the boy good to have a hearty cry in 
friendly arms ; for during all this sad business he 
had not shed a tear. Before Dorrie and her 
mother he had felt it his duty to keep up a cheer- 
ful face. What a relief it was to let loose his 
emotions, and, still sobbing at intervals, pour out 
the story in every pitiful detail, which had so long 
been hoarded in his breast ! 

Lady Courtley heard him through with hardly 
a word. 


142 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

“You told me to come to you, ma’am,” the boy 
concluded, “ when I was in trouble. So I came. 
Do you think I ought to write to father } ” 

“What could he do } ” asked the lady sadly. 

“ I don’t know. It seems as if he could stop it 
somehow. And then, there ’s Dorrie.” 

“ Well?” 

“ I can’t do anything with her. Mrs. Wilson 
cries, you know, but Dorrie just sits in that win- 
dow all day long, not crying a bit, but looking out 
with her big eyes. I bring in Terry and try to 
amuse her, but it ’s no use. Why, I have n’t 
heard her laugh, seems to me, in weeks!” 

Mrs. Courtley was at a loss what to do, John 
could plainly see. She had accomplished, how- 
ever, the object which she had in view, of sending 
for her little friend. The visit already had done 
him good ; he spoke in clearer and stronger tones, 
sat up straighter, and behaved more like a healthy 
boy of eleven, instead of the careworn, sober 
fellow he had grown during the past month. 

“Tell me about your studies, John,” said she. 
“ How is the geography coming on ? ” 

“ Well, I can’t do much in that, ma’am, without 
father. But I ’m getting ahead a little. Dorrie 
and I study together when I can get her to. 


A Visit to Lady Courtley. 


143 


Father showed us how before he went away. We 
pick out a good, shady place under the elm, and 
make countries and rivers and lakes in the ground. 
Dorrie generally marks them out with her cane. 
Then we get a pail of water and fill up the rivers, 
so that they run splendid, so long as I keep 
pouring.” 

“ I should think you could make volcanoes.” 

“ How.?” asked John with interest. 

Why, I should take a little bit of crumpled 
newspaper, and cover it all up with dirt but the 
top. Then light it with a match — being very 
careful not to light Dorrie instead — and it would 
look just like ” — 

‘‘ Po-po-cat-a-petl,” said John. “ That was in 
to-day’s lesson. I ’ll make one to-morrow.” 

Mrs. Courtley led him on to other subjects, and 
when, after a half-hour, she told him he must say 
good night and run home, he was surprised to find 
that he had forgotten all about Mr. Wilson and 
his troubles. Even when he remembered them, 
they did not weigh on him as they had ; and he 
was almost ashamed at not being able to feel more 
doleful. 

‘‘Be sure to come again soon and see me, John. 
Only come in the daytime if you can. I don’t like 
to have you out at night.” 


144 Boyhood of John Kent. 

John hesitated at the parlor door. 

‘‘You didn’t tell me whether I’d better write 
to father.” 

“Write, by all means, and tell him about the 
whole matter. He ’ll do you good if he does n’t 
Wilson,” she added, under her breath. 

John trotted cheerfully down street, and turned 
in through the back alley. He was delighted to 
find that Mr. Wilson had reached home before him 
and sober, having been detained in a South End 
house, to which he had been called to make repairs. 

John went to sleep with a lighter heart than he 
had known for many a night ; and in his dreams 
floated off to sea in a little boat over the bright 
waves, as he was wont to do in former days. 


V 


CHAPTER XL 


THE GLORIOUS FOURTH. 

' I "^HE date of John’s visit to his old boarding 
house was the second evening in July. 

What was his joy, next morning, to receive a 
little note from Waldo Pettingill (could it have 
been instigated by Lady Courtley.?) inviting him 
and Dorrie to accompany him to Boston Common 
on the following day and “see the sights.” 

Even Dorothy’s eyes brightened at this pros- 
pect, for she had never visited that immemorial 
tenting-ground of the Fourth of July in Boston. 
John had been there once only, with his father. 

It was arranged that Mr. Pettingill should call 
for them at eight o’clock in the morning. Mr. 
and Mrs. Wilson were courteously invited to join 
the party ; but Martha had no heart for celebra- 
tions, and Thomas replied rather gruffly to John, 
the bearer of the invitation, that he worked hard 
enough reg’lar days ; he wanted to rest on the 
Fourth. 

It seemed as if the preceding day would never 

146 


146 The Boyhood of John Kent, 

pass. John occupied a portion of his time in 
writing a letter to his father, keeping back noth- 
ing of the misfortunes at home. After the letter 
was sealed and posted, he felt better. 

The night before the Fourth was very hot, and, 
moreover, unusually explosive and horn-y. 

At the appointed hour behold Mr. Pettingill 
approaching, in a stylish new suit of light mate- 
rial, matching his eyebrows. John and •Dorrie 
were quite ready and, each taking a hand of the 
tall young man, the three passed out of the waste 
grounds into the heart of the city. A horse car 
carried them to the Park Street entrance of the 
Common, and soon their feet were pressing the 
sacred soil of that forty-acre lot. 

They walked very slowly to accommodate Dor- 
rie’s halting steps. 

“Let ’s go ’n’ sit down on one of the benches,” 
remarked Waldo, with an eye to economy of purse 
as well as of strength. “We can stay here a 
while, and see everything that ’s going on.” 

“And everybody that’s going on,” he might 
have added ; for, after all, it was the people that 
chiefly interested Dorrie. Most of us have be- 
come tolerably familiar with the outward appear- 
ance of our fellow-men. But to this shrinking, 


The Glorious Fourth. 


147 


isolated child no sight was more rare than her 
own race. They might have been from another 
planet, judging from the way she eyed them, 
especially the children, with wondering delight. 

Even at that early hour the Common was 
crowded with men, women, and children, most of 
whom were evidently freshly set down from sub- 
urban trains. Here and there a brown-handed 
and freckled youth might be seen promenading 
the russet malls with a blushing girl in white or 
pink attire and blue sash, her equally brown hand 
resting upon his arm. Children were armed with 
red toy balloons, with which they playfully banged 
and greeted each other, after the manner of Gulli- 
ver’s floating islanders. Old ladies sat upon the 
grass, surrounded by children and children’s chil- 
dren, all drinking in the intoxicating compound of 
band music, snapping crackers, happy faces, and 
sweet, sunshiny air. 

Waldo surveyed his charges with delight. 

“ Putty good show, now, is n’t it } ” he inquired 
genially. 

'‘Oh, it’s beautiful! Is every Fourth of July 
just like this, John 

John, from his vast experience, nodded gravely. 

“ It looked just so before, Dorrie, when I came 


148 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

with father. Only I guess the band played a little 
better.” 

“ Oh, it could n’t ! ” With which expression of 
faith and content she leaned back and drew a long 
breath of happiness. ^ 

It was a sultry day. The crowd increased con- 
stantly, surging to and fro, happily enough, or 
pausing to view some wonder new to their country 
eyes. 

Perhaps the greatest activity was shown in the 
vicinity of the booths, which converted the princi- 
pal malls into mimic and leveled Rialtos. In these 
booths a variety, not large, but imposing, of re- 
freshments was advertised for sale. There was 
pink lemonade in huge Jumbo glasses; pink pop 
corn in recklessly lavish pyramids ; and pink ice 
cream of indescribable coldness and flavor. One 
must fairly conclude that love for red color in all 
its shades is innate in the human race. Babylon 
and Nineveh were gorgeous in robes of this hue ; 
the Athenians must have scarlet metopes below 
the Phidian sculptures of the Parthenon ; Dante 
is enraptured in beholding Beatrice, for the first 
time, “ in a most noble color, a modest and becom- 
ing crimson ” ; and, last of all, the New Englander 
calls imperatively for roseate ice cream. 


The Glorious Fourth. 


149 


“ Let ’s have some,” said Waldo, and, nothing 
loath, the children followed. 

“ Looks about as good here as anywhere,” re- 
marked their conductor, halting before a little 
pine table, which was sheltered by a huge elm, 
and bore, displayed upon it, several cloudy glasses 
and teaspoons. One of the glasses, however, was 
temptingly heaped with ice cream of brightest 
hue, while it received the moral support of a 
more staid and non-committal dish beside it, 
which contained the same compound, flavored 
with commonplace lemon. 

The ice cream vender hastily washed three of 
the dim glasses and an equal number of pewter 
teaspoons for them, and beamed upon the trio, 
who thereupon seated themselves at the table, 
the two children glancing up at Waldo with an 
expectant air. 

“ What kind do you like best ? ” asked that 
young man. 

“ Strawberry,” replied John promptly. 

Dorrie hesitated, looked longingly at both sam- 
ples, then whispered, “ Do you suppose I could 
have a little of each.!*” 

“ One strawberry, one lemon, and one mixed,” 
ordered Mr. Pettingill, with a consequential air. 


150 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

How the pampered diner at Delmonico’s would 
have envied those children, if he could have seen 
them tasting the first crumbly bits of ice cream ! 

“ Taste good ? ” asked Waldo. 

“ Delicious ! ” 

Which kind goes best } ” addressing epicurean 
Dorrie. 

“ Oh, I don’t know ! There is n’t quite so much 
difference as I thought there ’d be. But it all 
tastes like — like the Fourth of July.” 

Mr. Pettingill was satisfied. 

While they sat there, making the cream last as 
long as possible, they noticed boys wandering 
about, all over the Common, selling white and 
colored handkerchiefs, balloons, whips, and other 
articles of a transient nature, and more or less 
popular. 

Mr. Pettingill rushed madly into extravagance 
and bought a whip. 

“ It ’ll come in handy,” said he, in half-apology, 
“if I should have a horse. Awful cheap, ain’t 
it ? ” 

John admired his purchase respectfully, while 
the girl’s eyes wandered again to the fascinating 
human kaleidoscope around her. 

They left the table at length, and drifted slowly 


The Glorious Fourth. 15 1 

with the crowd eddying along the thronged malls 
and across the turfed corners, usually protected 
from encroaching feet, but now fast changing 
from soft green to a dusty brown under the 
irresistible flood of humanity that poured over it. 

As they walked, their ears were constantly 
assailed with the cries of the various venders. 
One young fellow, with hat on the back of his 
saucy head, carried an open box of cigars under 
his arm, and was calling for customers to try ’em 
before you buy ’em ! Put ’em down again if you 
don’t like ’em!” Here was a thoughtful-faced 
man, in the midst of all this shouting and bang- 
ing, attentively examining a wee moth which 
clung to the twig he held irudiis hand. The Dime 
Museum, with pictures of rampant Zulus engaged 
in throwing clubs and poisoned darts, with the 
most, cheerful expression imaginable, had estab- 
lished its tent at the busy Boylston and Tremont 
street corner. In still another corner was a min- 
strel show, with the saddest of men parading up 
and down before its gates, begging the lookers-on 
to enter this abode of dusky mirth. Directly 
opposite was the broad, cool tent of the Woman’s 
Christian Temperance Union, its cleanly walls 
and strong, cheery-faced managers preaching a 


152 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

wholesome, though silent and unobtrusive, lesson 
throughout the day. Ice water stations had been 
established by the city at the several drinking 
fountains, and men were kept busy at them 
furnishing cups of cold water to every one who 
asked. 

want to go down nearer the music," said 
Dorrie, after a while. 

They managed to obtain good places, for people 
were very kind to the little lame girl, the serious- 
faced boy, and the slim young man, who, while 
regarding his own personal appearance as calcu- 
lated to inspire awe in the most frivolous of wrong- 
doers, was in reality presenting a most mild and 
inoffensive aspect. 

The band had stopped playing for a few min- 
utes, but now it struck up again — a sort of 
medley, beginning^ with a light popular air which 
was just then whistled by all the boys of Boston, 
entitled, “Sally, come up." 

Some of the children on the grass danced to 
th[e merry tune ; and even Dorrie made little 
starts and jumps on her one foot. 

The leader’s baton pauses an instant, then falls 
in slower time, and a grand burst of solemn 
melody responds. 


The Glorious Fourth. 


153 


So closely are the commonplace and trivial akin 
to the sublime that the strong, swelling strains of 
“ My country, ’t is of thee,” bring tears to the 
eyes of the listeners, for the hum of voices has 
grown strangely silent at that great hymn. To 
many a heart comes the memory of a few years 
ago, and with it the thought, how quickly this 
careless, good-natured crowd could be changed 
by a word, in the twinkling of an eye, to an 
army, undisciplined but stout-hearted, were that 
country in peril again ! The hymn is no longer 
an empty sound, but, from the stirring notes 
of the first line to the solemn and sacred close, 
Americans feel it thrill to the depths of their 
hearts, and it becomes to each his own sublime 
utterance. 

But before the tear can pass the quivering eye- 
lid, the band has changed its mood, and, happily 
enough, the crowd follows, compressed lips relax- 
ing into a smile when Yankee Doodle peals out 
merrily, and brings them back to the light-hearted, 
innocent gayety of the day. 

It was high noon. The crowd had doubled in 
numbers since morning, and the grounds wore a 
much disheveled look, as indeed did the people. 
The trio of children (for we must count in Waldo) 


1 54 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

did not, however, notice a single intoxicated per- 
son, and if there were some profanity, it was tired 
swearing, and did not seem half so wicked as 
many a phrase couched in most elegant English, 
from smiling but cruel lips. Pretty faces there 
were few ; honest and kindly ones, many. The 
only woman’s face that seemed vicious re- 
proached them as they came upon it again a 
little later, and saw that she was patiently mend- 
ing a toy balloon, in the hot sun, for a grieved 
child. Here and there were men stretched at 
full length on the turf asleep. There was some- 
thing extremely pathetic in the utter abandon of 
their positions as they lay there, nestling to the 
bosom of perhaps the kindest mother they 4 iever 
knew. Few men look bad when they are asleep 
— especially the backs of them. These poor fel- 
lows seemed like a lot of innocent, tired boys, 
though God knows what evil their waking mo- 
ments may have known ! It was a crowd very 
much like that of Galilee, I think, where “ there 
was much grass.” 

The most crowded spots of all were the ice 
water fountains managed by the city. At each 
one of these were men, women, and children, 
jostling each other, not ill-naturedly, for the 


The Glorious Fourth. 


155 


white mugs. When the press became too great 
one of the attendants would go outside with a 
pitcher, and so help the people that were too 
weak or too weary to make their way to the 
counter. 

In the Temperance tent addresses were being 
made in quick succession to as many people as 
could gain admittance. The sides of the tent 
were raised, and many loiterers stopped on the 
outskirts to catch a few sentences. 

On Monument Hill, close by, was another tent, 
called the Police, or City, tent. There were one 
or two burly officers seated on benches within it, 
together with one disconsolate little fellow who 
had “ lost his folks,” and three of the blackest of 
diminutive pickaninnies, brought for a like reason. 
A swarthy mother soon appeared and swooped 
down on these last, while their brass-buttoned 
finder strolled away again to the distant quarter 
of the grounds where he had picked them up. 
This was the corner formed by Beacon and 
Charles streets, and, on following him thither, 
they found the whole section in possession of 
their colored friends. One could have shut his 
eyes and guessed his surroundings, such a mur- 
muring of broad, soft voices filled the air. Among 


1 56 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

the booths the throngs were still surging to and 
fro, and sandwiches — particularly those manufact- 
ured to order from a cut roll and a slice from a 
huge ham, with an appetizing smear of mustard — 
were evidently in high demand. All the tables, 
so scrupulously clean in the morning, now wore a 
crumby aspect, which betokened a lively custom 
and no time to clear up. A man who advertised 
“farm milk ” had all he could do to supply thirsty 
people at five cents a glass. 

Meanwhile the clouds had been gathering on all 
sides, charged with fiery streams more potent than 
those of rocket and bomb, and the prospect of ter- 
restrial fireworks diminished accordingly. 

“ Guess we *d better be going,’' said Mr. Pet- 
tingill, looking up wisely at the sky. 

“ Oh, and we have so far to go ! ” 

“Not so very far,” said Mr. Pettingill, with a 
chuckle. “Only to Mrs. Roberts’.” 

“ Why, that ’s your house, sir ; but we have got 
to go home to ours.” 

“ See here,” said their friend, facing the two 
children, “Mis’ Courtley has sent a special invi- 
tation by me for you to dine with her at two 
o’clock.” 

“But Mrs. Wilson.?” began John, holding back 
his delight. 


The Glorious Fourth. 


157 


“She knows all about it. I jest kept it from 
you so ’s to be a sort of surprise. Need n’t come 
if you don’t want to,” he added, pulling ^ solemn 
face. 

“Oh, it will be splendid ! ” cried John. “What 
a grand Fourth of July it is, anyway ! Just think, 
Dorrie — the ice cream and the music and Lady 
Courtley all in one day ! ” 

“ I don’t know,” said Dorothy slowly, evidently 
having a struggle. “Perhaps I won’t go, this 
time.” 

“ Why, Dorrie, you ’ve no idea how nice she 
is and what a cosy little room she has ! Oh, 
do come ! ” 

“ I know,” said Dorrie, all the light suddenly 
gone from her holiday face ; “ but, you see, 
there ’s father. He might be lonesome, and he ’d 
miss me, perhaps” — 

Mr. Pettingill looked distressed and puzzled. 
John began to think hard. 

“ I ’ll tell you,” said he. “ Just as soon as we 
get to the house I ’ll ask Lady Courtley if I 
may n’t run down home and invite Mr. Wilson 
and aunt Martha” (he often called her that) 
“ to come too. I ’m sure she ’ll be willing.” 

“ Like ’s not, like ’s not,” exclaimed Waldo, 


158 


The Boyhood of John Kent. 


delighted at a prospect of a solution of the 
problem. “She wanted ’em to come anyway 
in the first place.” 

Dorrie’s happiness returned, and the old, worried 
look, so str”a^nge in those sweet, young eyes of late, 
vanished once more. 

“How good you all are to me ! ” she said grate- 
fully. “It’s the loveliest day I ever had. Just 
look at that big Newfoundland dog in the frog- 
pond, John ! ” 

But Waldo, feeling on his shoulders for the 
nonce all the responsibility of a government 
weather observer, would not loiter by that fa- 
mous sheet of water. His sagacious eye pre- 
dicted “variable winds and local areas of rain,” 
centering about Mrs. Roberts’ boarding-house, 
whither he now hastened the steps of his two 
charges. The rain held off, however, until they 
were safe indoors. The new feature of the din- 
ner was made known to their gentle hostess, who 
welcomed it as if it were not the occasion of the 
slightest inconvenience or additional expense to 
herself. 

Away flew John, while Lady Courtley tried to 
amuse a very distracted little Dorothy until he 
should return. Mr. Pettingill, meanwhile, betook 


The Glorious Fourth. 


159 


himself to the mysteries of the toilet, emerging 
from his chamber erelong with the air of one who 
has largely altered his identity by a startling 
change of costume. As, however, he had merely 
changed a necktie with blue rings on a maroon 
ground for one with cherry semicolons on a blue 
ground, and had brushed back his hair in a man- 
ner to give it a moist and streaked appearance, 
he was still recognizable as Waldo Pettingill, alias 
Waldo Pettingill. 

A sound of footsteps on the stairs. Dorrie’s 
heart beat hard as she sat with her two friends 
in the little boarding house parlor. 

^‘Come right in!” called John’s cheery young 
voice. 

O father, how glad I am I ” Dorrie’s welcome 
was so unmistakably fervent that iThomas’ face 
burnt a deeper red. But he took the little flut- 
tering bird to him as was his old-time wont, and 
advanced to meet Lady Courtley. 

‘‘This is a very great pleasure! ” she said, just 
warmly enough to put him at his ease. “ I ’ve 
been wanting to return your hospitality — my 
dear Mrs. Wilson, let me take your shawl ! — 
but, you see, I am at a disadvantage as I have 
no house of my own.” 


i6o The Boyhood of John Kent, 

“Mr. Wilson raced me two blocks,” panted 
John, all aglow, “but I beat him a full length.” 

“ Introduce me, please,” barked Terry, vibrat- 
ing forward like a kind of terrestrial pollywog. 

Hands and paws having been shaken all round 
— “ Come right up to my room,” said Lady Court- 
ley. “You’ve no idea how I’ve looked forward 
to seeing you. And Dorrie must tell us all about 
the crowds on the Common.” 

“ Look, it ’s beginning to rain already ! ” cried 
John, running to her window as they entered, 
while Waldo looked as important as if he had 
conjured up the storm for the express purpose of 
making the indoor party the cosier. 

Dinner would not be ready for about half an 
hour (that included time for Bridget to run out to 
the corner and purchase another box of strawber- 
ries and a few additions to the bill-of-fare) ; but 
nobody minded the waiting, especially as the ap- 
proaching storm bore down every topic of conver- 
sation or thought. 

The sky had rapidly grown dark, and the wind 
blew in short, spasmodic gusts, raising little clouds 
of dust, and dropping them as suddenly. People 
overtaken in the streets looked anxiously from 
the big round drops on the sidewalk to the 


The Glorious Fourth. i6i 

threatening blue-black canopy overhead, and hur- 
ried along at a faster pace, men buttoning their 
coats and girls drawing handkerchiefs over their 
heads. A low, melancholy roll of thunder swelled 
and died away. 

“Are you afraid, dear.?” asked Mrs. Courtley, 
drawing her little maiden-guest to her side. 

“ Not very, ma’am. I suppose I am a little.” 

“John does not seem to be.” The boy was 
standing at the window, staring solemnly at the 
gathering tempest. “ Are you, John .? ” 

“ Yes ’m.” 

John turned about and they could see that his 
face was pale. 

“ Why do you look at it, then ? ” 

“ I know I should n’t be, ma’am. Father says I 
mustn’t be; and he don’t mind it a bit. I sup- 
pose I get it from my mother.” 

“ But you have n’t told me why you stand and 
look at the storm.” 

“ Why, I want to get over being afraid of it if 
I can, ma’am. Father says, as fast as I find any- 
thing I ’m afraid of I want to look at it and go 
right up to it.” 

“ But not into danger,” interrupted the other. 

“ Not into danger. And if you think it ’s dan- 


1 62 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

gerous by the window, I won’t stay there, ma’am. 
I only meant I didn’t want to run away, or just 
hide my head from it. I don’t want to be scared 
of things. A man should n’t be afraid of any- 
thing y my father says, except doing wrong.” 

As the boy spoke, a vivid flash of lightning 
glittered through the room. John started, and 
clutched the lady’s hand with his own, which were 
cold. Before the crash of the thunder came 
he had recovered himself and stood ‘‘with soul 
erect,” head thrown back a little, nostrils dilated, 
lips set firmly, and eyes wide open. 

The picture of the little fellow standing there, 
mastering his fear and facing the storm because 
he knew that both it and himself were in the 
hollow of his Father’s hand, was a far grander 
sight than pagan Ajax, noble as he was, defying 
the lightning. 

There were but two or three heavy peals of 
thunder. The storm had passed over and was 
drifting northward along the coast, after the fash- 
ion of its kind in this locality. The rain, how- 
ever, still fell in torrents. Luckily,- Bridget had 
received her directions early enough to perform 
her errand and come scudding back while the 
storm was only a threat and a sprinkle. 


The Glorious Fourth. 163 

She now appeared at the door, and announced 
to Lady Courtley in an audible whisper that “ the 
berries was all right, mem ; ” but that she made 
bold to doubt if the cream would hold out, unless 
a compromise were effected by the addition of a 
little morning’s milk to the jug containing that 
delicacy. 

The hostess laughed the amused and unembar- 
rassed laugh of a lady, and bade her serve cream 
and milk in separate pitchers ; said compromise 
to be effected in public, if it should prove desir- 
able. 

While the maid was dispatched for the more 
substantial portions of the dinner, Mrs. Courtley 
took from a drawer in an old-fashioned stand a 
worn and mended but snow-white cloth, and 
spread it over the little center table from which 
a lamp and some books had been removed. 

The aid of John and Dorrie was called into 
requisition to help set the table, and in due 
time arrived Bridget, whose services, it should be 
stated, had not only been voluntarily laid at Lady 
Courtley’s feet, she being a favorite throughout 
the house, but had been gently stimulated by a 
small gift slipped into her hand the day before. 

It was no lugubrious company that drew up to 


164 The Boyhood of John Kent 

the round table, Dorrie and John, with Mr. Pet 
tingill between them, occupying the sofa, tempo- 
rarily upholstered with cushions and a great pile 
of Transcripts, for Dorrie’s benefit. 

Mr. Wilson was for the time his old self, and 
came out bravely with his quaint Down East say- 
ings and stories of army life, while his wife visibly 
grew young again. 

John had his bright smile ready for all. Dor- 
rie’s face scarce dimmed the light of her happy 
little heart, but rather radiated it around the 
table. Lady Courtley presided as only Lady 
Courtley could, with ready hand for her guests* 
wants, and smile, word, or answering glance, as 
gay talk and laughter flew back and forth. Terry 
too was remembered, and from a remote corner 
of the apartment a subdued sound of crunching 
and lapping bespoke his contented repast. 

As for Mr. Pettingill, he invariably laughed at 
everything that was said by everybody, even to 
excessive merriment when Dorrie innocently 
asked for bread, or Mrs. Wilson remarked that 
the storm was nearly over. 

Late that afternoon four happy people bade 
their entertainers good-by, and with light hearts 
passed down the glistening, clean-washed, sunlit 
streets toward home. 


CHAPTER XII. 


THROUGH A KNOT HOLE. 

T T 7HEN John climbed the garret stairs in the 
^ ^ old wing that night, he was well satisfied 
with the turn affairs had taken. Everything had 
gone off so naturally and pleasantly at Lady 
Courtley’s, as in former days, that the wretched- 
ness and fear of the preceding fortnight seemed 
more like a bad dream than reality. He of course 
had but small conception of what the appetite for 
liquor meant, or the leech-hold it has upon a man 
when once fastened. He only knew that when 
Thomas Wilson went over to the new place that 
he was fitting up in East Boston, he almost in- 
variably came home smelling like those black- 
mouthed shops he often had to pass, down by 
the wharves, and was surly and ill-tempered to his 
wife and little daughter, and that the next fore- 
noon he accomplished but little work at his bench. 
The boy was utterly at a loss to understand why 
a man, so much older and stronger than he, could 
166 


1 66 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

deliberately drink the liquor that took all the joy 
out of his home, and brought only sorrow. 

Nor could Thomas himself have told him. One 
moment he seemed as strong as Gibraltar, in the 
horror of the poison and the resolve never to 
touch it again ; the next, he felt himself literally 
falling toward the barroom, two miles away, and 
could no more stop himself than if he had slipped 
from the eaves of the lofty warehouses around 
him. 

John undressed and jumped into bed, after say- 
ing his prayers, and cuddled down for a comfort- 
able think — which was usually the boat in which 
he floated off to dreamland. He half wished now 
that he had not written to his father, troubling 
him about the matter ; and as he looked forward 
his childish eyes could see no dark places. For 
children rarely discern the shadows of troubles 
to come. They carry their own little lamps of 
faith and a pure heart, throwing only light into 
the future. 

The next morning John was both disappointed 
and relieved to receive a letter from his father, 
which must have crossed his own, stating that his 
work required him to leave his present stopping- 
place for a week or so ; and, as he would be 


Through a Knot Hole, 


167 


moving about from place to place during that 
time, he had not thought it necessary to change 
his address, but had left word that any letter 
arriving for him should be kept in the post office 
till his return. 

He would not receive John’s letter then, nor 
know anything of his partner’s ill conduct, for 
nearly a fortnight. John said nothing to his 
friends about the matter but set himself to wait 
patiently for Gilbert’s return. 

That forenoon he and Dorrie put Mrs. Court- 
ley’s volcano project into successful execution, 
culminating in a grand eruption with a fusee 
firecracker, which John had picked up on the 
Common the day before. 

In the afternoon, his companion having gone 
up to her room for a nap, — for the celebration 
had been a great tax upon her strength, — he - 
concluded to steal over to the shop and watch 
the progress of the work, of the full significance of 
which he was not aware. He found the new men 
hard at work and Mr. Wilson toiling with might 
and main. 

They were all so used to seeing him about that 
they hardly paused long enough to nod at him as 
he made his way across the floor, between piles 


1 68 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

of lumber, sashes, panels, and moldings, to his 
mousehole, into which he climbed nimbly and 
closed the door. 

It was very comfortable in his little retreat ; 
so much so that, lying at full length on his 
clean and sweet-smelling couch of shavings (he 
changed them every few days, as fast as they 
lost their first crispy freshness), he shut his 
eyes and presently was sound asleep. 

When he awoke his first thought was that he 
was in his own bed at home, and, in his sleepy 
confusion of ideas, he was turning over for 
another nap when the odor of the pine shav- 
ings drifted into his consciousness. In an in- 
stant he was broad awake and observant. 

With his ears, not with his eyes. It was pitch 
dark ; not the faintest thread of light came from 
the outside, nor could he catch the sound of 
hammer, plane, or saw. He pushed the door 
back and looked down into the shop, or rather 
into that portion of space where he knew the 
shop was, for not an object could be discerned 
in the blank darkness. It was plain that the 
men had forgotten him, locked up the shop, and 
gone home. 

He wondered a little that Mr. Wilson had not 


Through a Kuot Hole, 


169 


come back for him, as it was now evening, and 
he had no doubt that some one would let him 
out before long. Very likely the Wilsons were 
having a quiet laugh about him at home, and 
Thomas would shortly appear at the shop door. 
Meanwhile it was not a bad place to stay in, 
even if one had to spend the night there. He 
had not the least idea what time it was, but he 
knew it must be after dark. Fortunately he had, 
boy-like, put one of Mrs. Wilson’s doughnuts in 
his pocket before leaving home that afternoon, 
and this he now ate, refreshing himself afterward 
from a cold-water faucet in a little sink room to 
which he felt his way. He had some hope that a 
back door, through which the carpenters some- 
times took in lumber, might have been left un- 
fastened, but this too was locked and the key 
taken away. 

John was not wholly at his ease in the dark 
shop ; but he was much comforted by his dough- 
nut, and sought his hiding place once more, to 
wait with the best grace he could muster for his 
liberation. 

As his head came up on a level with the hole 
he was astonished to notice two or three points 
of light in the farthest end of it. He had no 


I/O The Boyhood of John Kent 

idea what was beyond. In the daytime it was 
always dark on the other side of his inner bulk- 
head, and though he had once or twice caught 
the murmur of voices he never distinguished a 
word that was said. This was largely from the 
reason, I suspect, that he almost invariably 
crawled in feet first, and lay • with his head 
toward his father’s bench. 

He was curious to see what was beyond, and, 
creeping softly in, laid his face up against a nar- 
row crack and peered through. 

What was his amazement to see his old enemy, 
Whelp, curled up asleep on a heap of clothes. 
A man sat beside him talking with somebody 
directly under John, and therefore invisible to 
him. 

Just below the crack was a small knot, about 
half an inch in diameter. Upon being removed 
it would leave a hole pointing downward, exactly 
at Whelp’s neighbor. A bit of light all around 
the knot showed that it was loose. John took 
hold of it, and wriggled it softly with his small 
finger tips. It was looser than he thought, and, 
provokingly enough, instead of remaining where 
it was, slid in a little — just far enough to be out 
of reach. 


Through a Knot Hole. 171 

And the human mouse in the wall was more 
anxious than ever to hear what was said, for 
he was sure he had caught the name of Mr. 
Wilson, coupled with an oath and a coarse laugh 
on the part of the man beside Whelp. There was 
no longer any doubt that the speaker was Ralph 
Hurlburt. The other man was probably the pro- 
prietor of the junk store. 

At last John became impatient, and resolved to 
run some risk, to ascertain what the two men were 
plotting about. 

The only way to get rid of the knot was to 
push it through, like an obstinate cork in a bottle. 
How to do this 'without attracting the notice of 
dog or men, he did not know ; but the difficulty 
was removed by the nearer of the two latter, 
who rose to hang something, John could not see 
what, upon the wall. 

The moment he gained his feet the boy pushed 
in the knot. It fell rattling upon the floor, as if 
the man had knocked it down in leaving his chair. 

Upon placing his eye at the knot hole, John 
was, however, dismayed to find that by one of the 
trio, at least, he was observed. Whelp had one of 
his eyes — and if ever a dog had a cold, brutal 
eye that dog was Whelp — fixed upon that very 


1/2 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

knot hole, and was growling in a marked and 
highly significant manner. 

Rats, Whelp ! ” said his master, following his 
dog’s fixed gaze, and looking unconsciously 
straight into John’s eye. 

“I say, Jagger, look at that setter o’ mine! 
He sees game in that mousehole up there, eight 
feet from the floor I ” 

John did not dare to move or blink. He was 
cold with dread of discovery, and heartily wished 
he had let the knot alone. He stared at Hurl- 
burt right in the eye with the fascination of a 
linnet before a serpent ; but without that gentle- 
man’s remotest knowledge of thfe fact. Little he 
thought what kind of a rat lay watching him 
within reach of his hand I 

Whelp, who seemed endowed with supernatural 
sagacity, bristled and snarled and glared at the 
knot hole until his master gave him a kick that 
sent him back howling to his bed, and made John’s 
hatred for the ill-tempered creature suddenly turn 
to pity. 

Resuming their seats, the two men went on 
with their interrupted conversation. John had 
seen, in his momentary glimpse of Jagger’s face, 
that it was deeply pitted from the ravages of 


Through a Knot Hole. 173 

smallpox, and was rimmed by a short, bristly, 
black beard. Ralph had no beard, but a huge, 
coarse mustache, usually indented by a large 
cigar, such as now glowed and fumed beneath it. 

Jagger was the first to speak. 

“What were you saying about my neighbor 
Wilson .? ” 

“ Saying ? That he ’s a fool. He used to mess 

with me in the th New Hampshire, and a 

jolly good fellow he was too. But now he ’s 
grown sanctimonious. When I met him about 
three weeks ago he had hardly a word for that 
wicked man, his old friend Hurlburt. But I Ve 
fixed him, him ! ” 

“ Well, well, don’t mind him now. What ’s the 
word from ” — 

Here the man dropped his voice, and while they 
talked in indistinct tones, John, breathing more 
easily, took the chance to survey the room in 
which they were sitting. 

It was a small apartment, hardly more than a 
good-sized closet. The wooden ceiling was several 
inches lower than that of Mr. Wilson’s shop, so 
that it barely came above the knot hole. All 
around the sides was hung a most curious collec- 
tion of objects — tools, such as John had never 


1/4 Boyhood of John Kent. 

seen before, odd-shaped bits, queer hammers, awls, 
chisels, all bearing a distant resemblance to those 
with which his father worked, but just enough 
unlike to puzzle him. In one of the walls was a 
sort of cupboard, of which the door stood partly 
open, a bunch of keys depending from the key- 
hole. There were three shelves within, and on 
them were one or two small tin boxes, and a num- 
ber of bunches of papers, besides some other 
objects, which, being in the shadow, the boy could 
not make out. The room had some sort of a thick 
felt carpet, upon which the feet of the men, he 
noticed, made not the slightest noise. The walls 
were of a very dark wood, stained, and were not 
plain but roughly paneled. The only light was a 
candle, which sputtered feebly in an old tin candle- 
stick, on a small table curiously at variance with 
its surroundings, its top being of some substance 
like marble, only green, and its slender legs 
shining like gold. 

To the right, so far that John could barely see 
into it, was another cupboard, also open. This 
was more ordinary in appearance, and impressed 
him simply by its inappropriateness in that place. 

It contained, so far as he could see, only glass 
and china. 


Through a Knot Hole. 


175 


At the left hand, behind the pile of clothes 
where Whelp lay, two framed oil paintings stood 
against the wall. These, too, interested the youth- 
ful looker-on but little, as they seemed old and 
dingy. The only other object of furniture — if it 
could be so called — in the stuffy little room was 
a common enough looking trunk. 

While the man addressed as Jagger was speak- 
ing, he leaned over and raised the lid, disclosing, 
oddest of all, a heap of books. One of these he 
selected, and began showing it to his companion, 
who seemed, on the whole, rather bored. The 
book was bound in some grimy white substance, 
and printed with very large, queer-shaped black 
letters. Every few pages there was a small 
colored picture in brilliant tints, principally blue, 
red, and gold. 

All this John saw as in a dream. He was 
chiefly interested, however, to hear what the man 
had to say about his friend Mr. Wilson, this 
being, in fact, the only part of their conversation 
which concerned him. If a man chose to keep his 
pretty table and old books in a room in his store, 
that was naught to John. If they were planning 
against Dorrie’s father, that was another matter. 

Rather to his disappointment they rose after 


176 The Boyhood of John Kent 

about five minutes’ low, eager talk, and Jagger 
began locking the cupboards and trunk. 

“ You ’re sure Blanchard is safe, are you, if they 
answer the advertisement.?” asked Hurlburt. 

Safe as death. The first two or three times 
he ’ll go without the book. If everything is clear 
he ’ll take it the third time.” 

“ How about the table .? ” said Ralph, glancing 
toward it and yawning. 

“Going to New York next Saturday. Walsh 
takes care of that. He ’s got a good man to run 
it in.” 

“How much .? ” 

“ Two hundred, sure. Is that saloon of yours 
about done, Hurlburt .? ” 

“ No ; it ’s slowing up, on account of Wilson’s 
being half the time on a drunk. I wish I ’d let 
him alone till the job was done.” 

“ A first-rate man for us,” observed the first 
speaker, with a sly look. “ Understands bolts and 
drawers, don’t he .? And has a good many calls to 
the houses up on the Avenue .? ” 

Ralph shook his head doubtfully. 

“ If it wa’ n’t for that cursed Kent,” said he, 
“we’d have him. He’s the only man we need, 
now. That little girl of his won’t live the year 
out, anyway, and then he ’ll be ready, if his pious 


Through a Knot Hole. 177 

partner and that sneaking kid don’t work against 
me.” 

While he was speaking Mr. Jagger was going 
through a series of performances which filled 
John with amazement. First he threw back one 
side of the carpet, which was indeed but a large 
mat, and upon his touching a certain nail-head in 
the wall a hole appeared in the floor. Into this 
he lowered the trunk, the table, and the two pict- 
ures, closed the trap, and then threw back the 
carpet. As he did so John heard two slight 
clicks, and looking up quickly found that both 
cupboards had disappeared. The panels looked 
exactly alike, and the room was only a most ordi- 
nary-looking closet without the slightest trace of 
door or treasures. 

‘‘Where’s Wilson to-night asked Jagger, 
kicking out the last fold of the carpet. 

“ Putting in some of the inside moldings, over 
there. I ’m going over now. It ’ll be ten o’clock 
before I get there, and by that time he ’ll be in 
a glorious shout at O’ Callaghan’s old stand, two 
doors off.” 

John’s heart sank as the men, closely followed 
by the dog, walked out through a door he had not 
seen before, in the rear of the room, and left him 
in darkness. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


AT SEA. 


HAT there was no use in waiting any longer 



for Mr. Wilson to come and set him free 
John realized when he saw the two men turn from 
him, one of them on his way to join the carpenter 
in a midnight revel. It seemed incredible that 
Thomas could again sink into the mire of intoxi- 
cation, but John, alas, was learning fast, and it 
began to dawn dimly upon him that a drunken 
habit was not a mere mood to be taken up or 
put down at will, but an evil disease of both mind 
and body which must be fought not once or twice, 
but for months and years. 

He had heard Wilson speak of the job that 
had taken him to East Boston that evening, and 
he knew it was a long and difficult one. Perhaps 
he could reach the saloon before the carpenter left 
it — before Hurlburt arrived! If he could only 
get out of the shop ! 

There was but one chance, short of pounding 
on the door and arousing passers-by, who would 


178 


A/ Sea. 


179 


break into the shop and make a scene and a news- 
paper item out of it. Besides, he was unwilling to 
let his neighbors know that he had been in the 
building while that secret talk had been going on. 

Something about it was wrong, he was sure, 
and he wished the men to have no suspicion that 
they had been overheard. 

The shop was a story-and-a-half structure, with 
a disused lumber loft in which John had not set 
foot for a long time. There was a trap in the 
ceiling of the main workroom, and the boy could 
vaguely remember in old times seeing boards 
taken up through a sort of window-door, into that 
loft. There was a bare possibility that it was left 
unlocked, or fastened on the inside in such a way 
as to be easily opened. 

Climbing softly down from his mousehole, the 
slide of which he closed, and feeling his way 
across the floor, he soon found the ladder. Up 
this he mounted, unable to see his hands before 
his face, and guarding himself constantly against 
striking his head upon some projection. 

The trap was closed, and no sort of a hinge or 
hasp indicated how it was to be attacked from 
below. By pressing in various spots, he at last 
felt it yield a little. His arms were not strong 


i8o The Boyhood of John Kent, 

enough to raise the heavy door, but he managed 
to get his shoulders up under it, and so, at con- 
siderable risk of falling off backward from the 
ladder, by bracing and lifting with aU his might, 
he succeeded in squeezing through. 

How hot and close the loft was ! There was a 
great scampering and squeaking of rats as he rose 
into its dusty, stifling air. 

Hardly pausing to rest a moment, but dreading 
lest his next step should be on the soft body of 
one of these invisible little evil sprites, he crept 
along to the old shutter. It was fastened, but 
only with a bolt, which slid rustily back at his 
touch. A good strong pull, and with an indig- 
nant creaking and showers of dust, the door 
swung open. 

John leaned far out and breathed in the deli- 
cious night air with rapture. The stars looked 
down in friendly wise and he felt far safer in 
God’s great room than in his own small one. 

A dark object trotted up close beside his feet 
and, with a squeak like a young pig, bounded 
clumsily back into the shadows of the loft. The 
rats were growing bolder and resented the intru- 
sion on their ancient domain. 

John was still rather afraid of them and took a 
hasty observation before and behind. 


At Sea. 


i8i 


The window of the loft in which he stood was 
fully twelve feet above the ground. He could 
“hang off” and drop; but a fall of six or seven 
feet into a dark alley, with no knowledge of the 
soil or pavement, was hardly to be risked. 

Looking round he spied the end of a piece of 
joist sticking out of a pile of lumber. This he 
laid hold of and pulled out, causing much com- 
motion among his unpleasant companions and 
clouds of dust about his head. 

The joist was long and one end, he found, 
rested easily on the ground at a comfortable angle, 
while the other rose above the sill of the door, or 
window, to the height of his knee. 

Escape was now easy. He pulled-to the old, 
sagging door as far as he could and, hugging 
the joist, let himself slowly down to the bottom. 
He then laid the stick on the ground against the 
foundation of the building, and, breathing hard, 
but thankful to be at liberty once more, he has- 
tened his steps out of the alley and into the 
street. The junk shop, he noticed as he passed, 
was closed, dark and silent. He could hardly 
believe, as he looked at its commonplace doors 
and shutters, that his whole experience in the 
shop and his strange vision through the knot hole 


1 82 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

was not a dream. As to Thomas, however, he 
could easily find out whether or not he was at 
home. 

He quickened his steps and pattered along the 
sidewalk at a lively pace, nearly running down, 
at the first corner, a policeman, who fortunately 
knew him and dismissed him with a friendly pat 
and an admonition to get to bed as fast as he 
could. 

John ran on, turned into the alley, trotted up 
the familiar pathway, and slowed his pace to a 
walk as he neared the old house. 

There was a light in the kitchen. Creeping 
softly up to the window he peeped in. Martha 
was sitting there alone, as he had expected. Her 
head was resting on her hand and on her face 
was a helpless look of anguish and despair that 
made the boy’s heart ache. 

He crept away as softly as he had come and 
sat down in the shadow of the great elm. What 
ought he to do.!* He tried to think what his 
father would wish, could he in some way under- 
stand and speak across the miles of mountain 
and valley and rolling stream that lay between. 
But it was of no use. He knew his father was 
about his work or resting quietly, with absolutely 


At Sea. 


133 

no knowledge of his friend’s sin and sorrow and 
his boy’s anxiety. Love might pass to and fro 
between them, finding a conductor in the very 
earth itself ; but beyond that only the thin air 
filled the eager grasp of the boy’s doubtful heart. 

Then it came to him, child though he was, that 
his Father in heaven who, of course, must be 
exactly like his other father, but able to see and 
understand always and everywhere instead of only 
when in sight, must know all about matters at the 
Wilson house and must be ready to tell him just 
what to do, as Gilbert Kent would, were he by 
his boy’s side. 

John knelt down and whispered a prayer, hav- 
ing in his mind all the time, I think, his very own 
earthly father. 

“ Dear Father, Mr. Wilson ’s gone off again, 
you know, and will get drunk. He ’s been real 
good for two days, and nice to Dorrie and aunt 
Martha and me, and now he ’ll be all wrong again. 
Please, what must I do .? I ’m afraid aunt Martha 
won’t let me go if I ask her; and perhaps she 
is n’t worrying very much about me, anyway, 
she ’s feeling so bad about Mr. Wilson. Don’t 
you think I ought to try to find him and bring 
him home?” 


1 84 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

John was so much in earnest to get an answer 
to his plain question, and so carried away with the 
idea of the presence of his Father, that he forgot 
to say '‘Amen ” ; which was, perhaps, just as well, 
considering that the word meant no more to him 
than “ Selah.” 

He waited a minute, with his eyes shut tight, 
and the little antennce of his soul all alert for an 
answer. (If my reader is shocked at the compari- 
son, he must remember the Greek ^Jsyche.”) 

Then he rose to his feet, as fully convinced as 
if he had heard the spoken word that his duty 
was to get over to East Boston somehow, and 
rescue his friend from the clutches of evil. 

You may say that the boy was morbid ; that 
he was excited by the lateness of the hour, the 
strange experience through which he had just 
passed, the lonely life which he had led with a 
crippled child and half a dozen people much 
his elders ; and that he mistook- his strained and 
unnatural sense of duty for the voice of inspira- 
tion. 

I reply that John was as healthy a boy as I 
ever saw, rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed, and, on occa- 
sion, as brimful of happiness as a Newfoundland 
pup. And if God does not hear such a prayer as 


At Sea. 


185 


John’s, earnestly and sincerely offered ; or, hear- 
ing, does not answer in any way cognizable by the 
beseeching heart, be it child’s or man’s, then your 
God is not the God of whom I read in the New 
Testament ; whom the Nazarene figured on earth, 
when he walked the weary ways of Palestine, and 
took little children in his arms and blessed them. 
Your modern evangelist or popular preacher may 
be so driven with work, or occupied with lofty 
themes, or intent on saving souls, as to pay little 
heed to a lisping voice at his knee. I do not so 
read the daily life of the divine Man of Palestine ; 
I do not so picture the all-seeing and all-loving 
One, of whom Jesus said, “He that hath seen 
me hath seen the Father.” I can not draw any 
line at any given point between a child’s prayers 
for a new doll, and a mother’s prayers for the life 
of her child, or the preacher’s for the life of a 
nation — saying, “Thus far, God heareth and 
answereth prayer; beneath this degree of impor- 
tance, he cannot stoop to reply.” Nay, the an- 
swer to the child’s prayer for the toy may awake 
in her own heart a love like that of the mother 
who bends over hers the child for whom the 
mother prays may be, under God, the savior of 
his people. 


1 86 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

When John Kent rose from his knees and 
quietly made his way down past the little garden, 
with its night-fragrant sweet peas, and white 
morning-glories with trembling lips half open, I 
believe it was in obedience to a direct command 
from his Father in heaven, the Ruler of the earth 
and the seas, the stars and the unseen universe, 
in answer to the whispered, frightened, uncertain 
prayer of this child. 

Instead of returning to the street by the accus- 
tomed path, John instinctively took the direction 
of the water. He knew that ferryboats ran dur- 
ing the day across the harbor ; and that probably 
they made trips in the evening, — or how could 
Mr. Wilson get back and forth } He had never 
crossed in a ferryboat, however, and had the 
vaguest possible ideas as to their whereabouts or 
the requirements for passage. He had, moreover, 
heard Thomas once say something about their 
only running once an hour (the man had probably 
been speaking of their night trips, or of deten- 
tion by fog), and he was at a loss how to reach 
East Boston at all. 

Along the lower side of the waste patch of 
ground in which the house was situated ran a 
high board fence. In all his life John had not 


At Sea. 


187 

seen the other side of that fence. He only knew 
that a short distance beyond were the wharves 
and the water. In his dreams at night he always 
set out by climbing this fence; beyond, all was 
fanciful. He now resolved to take his dream- 
path and trust to his Father who was sending 
him to guide him to a means of passage to the 
desired haven. So, as boldly as the Israelites 
into the retiring waters of the Red Sea, he walked 
down toward the harbor. 

The fence was a somewhat more important 
obstacle than he had ever found it in his dreams, 
and he had to try it at half a dozen points before 
he succeeded in scaling its smooth heights. 

Sitting on the top to gain breath, he found he 
was looking down into a sort of neglected lane, or 
back street, which ran between his own land and 
the rear of a block of ancient sail lofts and ware- 
houses, now silent and unilluminated by a single 
bright window. 

At a short distance to the right, another street, 
even narrower than this, a mere alley, in fact, 
struck off at right angles toward the wharves. 

He swung himself down on the outer side of 
the fence, hung by his hands, and dropped, land- 
ing in a small morass of mud, which had not 


1 88 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

dried since the Fourth-of-July shower. The alley 
was soon reached. It stretched blackly down hill 
at a pretty sharp grade ; for the Wilson house, as 
I have said, was on high ground. It was neces- 
sary here to feel his way, and once he slipped and 
fell, bruising his knee. At the foot of the alley a 
drunken sailor caught sight of him and staggered 
toward him, swearing horribly. John did n’t un- 
derstand half he said, but knew he was in danger 
and ran like a squirrel. 

He had not passed down the street a dozen 
rods when he reached the head of a wharf. 

The water glittered here and there with stars 
and lapped against the slimy piers. John ran 
along the wharf, with no very definite idea, save 
to escape from the drunken man — who had 
already forgotten him — and to look for his 
dream-boat. 

The wharf was encumbered with cordage, 
chains, bales, boxes, and piles of lumber. He 
found himself at last at the outermost end of it, 
with the broad harbor stretching out before him 
and the lights of East Boston twinkling out far 
away on the other side. Just beneath him, rising 
and falling on the ripples that stirred the surface 
of the water, was a boat ; not at all such a fairy 


At Sea. 


189 


craft as he had often sailed away in, from his little 
garret bed ; but a dingy, ill-smelling affair, moored 
to the wharf by a rope and containing no silken 
sail. In the stern sat a man, apparently half 
asleep. As he heard the footsteps on the wharf 
above him, he lifted his head and looked up. 

‘‘Hullo!” said he, not ill-naturedly, “what do 
you want, youngster .? Is the old man cornin’ 

He meant the captain of his vessel, for whom 
he was waiting ; but of course John had no idea 
of this. 

“ I don’t know whom you mean by the ‘ old 
man,’ ” said he, encouraged by the man’s tone, 
“but I want very much to go to East Boston. 
Perhaps you can tell me the way, sir ” 

“ H’m. D’ you know what time it is ? ” 

“ About half-past ten, I think.” 

“ What are you out so late for } Missed your 
way to the ferry } ” 

“No, sir,” said John. “Only there’s somebody 
over there I mu.st see. He ’s — he is n’t well.” 

“ Wal, if it ’s only half-past ten, or thereabouts, 
I can put you over ’n this 'ere boat fer a quarter. 
Got so much about yer ? ” 

Yes, John had a silver coin of just that amount 
which his father had given him to spend, the day 


1 90 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

he left. He produced it, and innocently held it 
up so the man could see it. 

“ Come on, then.” 

‘‘ Please, sir, how am I to get down } ” asked 
John. 

By the stairs, of course. Don’t you see ’em } ” 

They were just round the corner of the wharf. 
It was not pleasant going down those slippery 
steps into the darkness, nor stepping into the 
unsteady boat and crouching timidly in the stern 
as the man cast off the rope and took his place 
on one of the thwarts. 

“You see,” explained the latter, “I’m one of 
the crew of the barque North Star, — that’s her, 
below thar, in the roads, — ’n the cap’n an’ fust 
officer hev gone ashore, leavin’ word fer me to be 
ready fer ’em with the gig. We sail to-night, at 
half-past eleven o’clock, soon ’s the tide serves. I 
guess I can put you over an’ be back in time.” 

John was much mystified by the sailor’s allu- 
sions to the “ roads ” and the “ gig,” terms which 
he had associated with the dryest of land. He 
understood enough, however, to thank the man 
for his trouble. 

“You must be very tired, sir, waiting there so 
long.” 


The man gave a short laugh, scornfully but not 
ill-naturedly, as he bent to his oars. 

“ I 'm used to it, youngster,” said he around 
the stem of a short, black pipe. That ’s about 
all I Ve ever done.” 

‘‘ Oh, that ’s too bad ! Have you any boys or 
girls of your own, sir.?” pursued John. 

Never a one,” the sailor answered huskily. 

That ’s one of the things I Ve b’en waiting 
fer.” 

“ Where do you live, please .? ” 

“ Down on the Cape.” It was curious the way 
in which the rough sailor submitted to be ques- 
tioned. Something in the boy’s trustful manner, 
perhaps, touched him. Down on the Cape whar’ 
thar’ ’s a strip o’ sand jest wide enough to keep 
the bay from blowin’ through inter the Atlantic 
and makin’ an island out of Provincetown. My 
wife says it ’s about the lonesomest place this side 
the North Pole,” he added candidly, knocking the 
ashes from his pipe. 

‘‘ And no boys or girls .? ” 

'‘No, I tell ye ! ” said the man irritably. 

He was sore on this subject, of this unfulfilled 
hope which had been the one fragile flower grow- 
ing on the rough cliff of his heart. He had never 


192 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

before acknowledged it to living soul, not even 
to his wife, so far as he had to John in that sen- 
tence just before. 

“ I ’m sorry,” said the boy simply. “ I suppose 
if you want to very much, you will some time.” 

“Not in this world,” said the man grimly, with 
an extra tug at the oars. 

“No, perhaps not,” said his passenger, who had 
been taught by Gilbert Kent that every gentle 
and loving wish, ungratified on earth, would meet 
its perfect fulfillment in heaven. 

The man regarded John curiously in the dim 
light, but pulled away in silence ; while the boy, 
left to his own thoughts again, gazed wonderingly 
out over the dark water. 

Here and there vessels were lying at anchor, 
their black spars showing dimly against the night 
sky. Not far away from them a whole house, with 
lighted windows, seemed floating across the har- 
bor in a course parallel with their own. 

“That’s the reg’lar East Boston ferryboat,” 
exclaimed the sailor. 

How different, how different, the boy kept 
thinking, from the voyage he had pictured to 
himself again and again. The boat, th^ clicking 
and splashing oars, the bubbling water, and the 


At Sea. 


193 


man before him, were very real and very dingy 
in contrast to the bright creations of his brain. 

Once the man pulled hard to get out of the 
way of a sharply puffing little steam tug, which 
had just towed a brig to her anchorage. 

Will you tell me your name, please } ” asked 
John, as they neared the further shore. “Mine 
is John Kent.” 

“ My name 's Bill Dawson. ‘ Kent,’ did you 
say ? Any relation to Gilbert Kent ? ” 

“Why, he’s my father!” cried John joyfully. 
“ Do you know him 

“ Know Gil Kent ? Wal, I sh’d say I did I 
We went to the same deestrict school together. 
I want to know ’f you ’re his boy ! ” 

“ Oh, I wish he were here to thank you 1 ” said 
John. “ He ’s away now. We don’t live far 
from the water ” (naming the street in which the 
mouth of the alley counted for the number). “ Do 
come and see us some time when the North Star 
is here.” 

“That’s jest what I’ll do,” said the other. 
“ Whar’ be you goin’ to-night, now ? ” 

John told him, growing sober again. 

“ H’m ! Pretty bad corner that. Wal, here ’s 
your quarter, so you can go back by the ferry, ef 


194 


The Boyhood of John Kent, 


y want to. Don’t ketch me takin’ money from 
one of Gil Kent’s young ’uns. Good-by. Tell yer 
father I remember him, an’ ’ll lay up alongside 
some time. I ’m shipped fer a long voyage 
now.” 

“ Good-by, Mr. Dawson ! We shall look for 
you. Thank you very, very much for rowing me 
over, and for the quarter.” 

He felt genuinely sorry to leave his new 
friend ; and the weight of his undertaking fell 
back upon him as he climbed the steps to the 
wharf above. 

He inquired the way to the new saloon from 
several people, who looked at him queerly while 
they gave him the directions. 

One said (it was a young woman) : ‘‘You ’d 
better turn right round, little feller, and run 
straight home. That place ain’t fer the likes o’ 
you.” 

“ Thank you, ma’am,” he said ; “but I must go. 
I have a friend there who is not well.” 

His little speech sounded quaintly polite. He 
was so anxious to let it tell just the truth and 
nothing more. 

The streets in which he now found himself were 
not dark like those through which he had passed 


At Sea. 


195 


on the other side. They were lighted by the 
bright windows of liquor saloons on both sides 
of the way. A good many rough-looking men 
and women strolled or staggered along the side- 
walk, but none of them spoke harshly to John, 
or, indeed, seemed to take any notice of him. 

At length the corner came in sight where the 
new saloon was situated. 

John’s first glance took the eagerness from his 
steps, the light from his eyes. Even at that dis- 
tance he could see that the saloon was closed and 
its windows dark. He was too late, then ; and 
at that moment Thomas Wilson was probably 
carousing with Whelp’s ugly master in a neigh- 
boring dramshop. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


TO THE RESCUE. 


T a short distance from the dark blot on the 



street which marked the location of the 
new enterprise, now deserted for the night, a 
specially brilliant glare was thrown out across the 
pavement from a saloon more pretentious than 
the rest. John drew near, with lagging steps, 
and read on the sign over the door, 

Michael O’Callaghan, Wines and Liquors, 


Licensed. 


A jargon of noisy merriment floated through 
the open door, from which its hot and baleful 
breath panted out into God’s sweet night. 

The boy timidly paused on the lower step — 
there were three from the sidewalk — and looked 
in. At first he saw no one he knew, not even 
Whelp. Then, through a cloud of smoke, he 
caught sight of the proprietor of the place, loung- 
ing against the bar and talking with a customer, 


To the Rescue, 


197 


a young fellow, hardly more than a boy, with 
brown, wavy hair, not unlike John’s own. He 
had his hand on a glass half full of liquor, and, 
from his loud talk and foolish gestures, it evi- 
dently was not his first. O’Callaghan himself 
had no tumbler, and was perfectly sober. He 
was a good deal of a temperance man, and took 
pride in the fact that he never drank at his own 
bar. ‘‘Of course,” he would say, “if my cus- 
tomers want liquor I must give it to ’em, but I 
don’t indulge myself ; don’t believe in that sort 
of thing, you know.” Which position deprived 
him of even the poor excuse of his own appetite 
in pursuing his calling, and left him, in the eyes 
of honest men, ten times meaner than his half- 
drunken neighbors. 

Still no Wilson. John advanced a step inside 
the doorway. Then he saw him — oh, pitiful sight ! 
Could that be the father of pure and sweet little 
Dorothy, the man who, only forty-eight hours 
before, had been talking so courteously and sen- 
sibly at Lady Courtley’s quiet tea party 

John shivered from head to foot and stood 
staring. Bad as he had seen his friend in his 
own home, he had never known him like this. 
They were sitting at the table, three of them. 


198 The Boyhood of John Kent, 

Hurlburt, Wilson, and a stranger. Their half- 
emptied glasses steamed in their hands, and 
dripped on the filthy floor. The other two men 
still had their senses, for John could see that they 
watched their companion sharply, but Thomas 
had long ago ceased to be more than a brute, 
gifted with maudlin speech and laughter. He was 
sprawling back in his chair, with feet stretched 
wide apart, hat on the back of his head, collar 
gone, and vest thrown back, his face ashen pale, 
— for Thomas was one of those in whom intox- 
ication reaches a white heat, — talking in thick 
tones and wagging his head to and fro like an 
idiot. Under the table lay Whelp, cowering as if 
ashamed of his company. 

Hurlburt was the first to see John. He ex- 
changed a quick glance with the third of the 
trio and made a motion as if he would have risen 
to check the advance of •this little angel of light. 
But before he could gain his feet John stepped 
straight forward and laid his small hand on his 
friend’s crumpled coat sleeve. 

The carpenter looked up at him blankly for a 
moment. 

“Won’t you come home, please.?” said John. 
“Dorrie wants to see you.” 


To the Rescue. 


199 


Whelp himself never had an uglier look in his 
eye than did Thomas Wilson that moment. John 
quailed before it, it was so strange, and fell back 
a step. Then he stood his ground, white and 
trembling, but stanch to his post. 

The other occupants of the saloon looked up 
carelessly over their tumblers to see what the 
man would do. 

“You — you — g’ 'ome ! ” stammered Thomas, 
bringing out this last word with almost a scream. 
“ Wha’ d’ y’ mean b’ com’n’ ov’ here, HEY } ” 

“ Won’t you come, sir ? ” said John, once more. 

Wilson’s only reply was to lurch forward and, 
seizing the boy by the shoulder, stagger with him 
toward the door. 

“ I ’ll go when — when — I want t’ go ! ” 
hiccoughed the wretched man, dimly reading 
his degradation in the boy’s clear eyes. The 
thought angered him. 

“ You g’ ’ome ! ” he repeated, this time with a 
vicious push. 

John was standing with his side to the door^ 
had his back been to it the fall might have killed 
him. As it was he half fell, half tripped over 
the threshold and down the three steps to the 
sidewalk, striking his left shoulder and his head 
heavily against the curb. 


200 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

Thomas lurched down after him, but was met 
by a powerful hand, which was laid upon his 
chest and thrust him violently back against the 
building. 

“ You ’ve done mischief enough ! ” cried Bill 
Dawson’s honest voice. “ The lad ’s half killed 
now.” 

The sailor had had his misgivings as he watched 
the little figure disappear in the darkness after 
leaving him at the wharf ; and making fast his 
boat, had run up to O’ Callaghan’s saloon just too 
late to save John from his fall. 

He stooped over the boy and raised him ten- 
derly in his tarry hands. 

But Wilson was too far out of his senses to 
leave the matter here. 

‘‘No bus’ness yours ! ” he shouted. “Le’ m’ 
’lone ! ” 

Bill treated him to another push — he would 
not strike a drunken man — and turned again to 
the prostrate boy. 

At this moment Hurlburt and two or three 
other rough fellows, whom he had summoned by 
a wink, came crowding out at the door. 

“ Clear out o’ this ! ” shouted one of the men, 
grasping Bill roughly by the shoulder. 


To the Rescue. 


201 


The sailor made a quick movement, his big 
right fist shot out, and down went the man like 
a log before a blow straight between the eyes. In 
the momentary rush backward, occasioned by this 
assault. Bill picked up John like a baby and glared 
at the fast collecting crowd over the unconscious 
form in his arms. 

Don’t one of you fellows lay hand on the 
boy ! ” he thundered, “ or you ’ll be sorry you 
ever run foul of Bill Dawson ! ” 

No one replied, and the stout sailor started off 
on a dogtrot down the street. 

The moment he turned the cowardly pack were 
in pursuit, espousing the cause of their comrade 
who had been struck down. Dawson had about 
a hundred yards the start of them, but they 
gained rapidly. If the boy had only been able 
to cling to the protecting shoulders it would 
have been far easier to escape ; but his head, 
with the brown hair wet and matted, hung help- 
lessly down, and Bill had to use both hands to 
hold him fast. 

Reaching a cross street he turned into it, and 
then a second time into a dark alley a few feet 
further along. Here he flattened himself up in 
the shadow and waited for breath. Two thirds 


202 The Boyhood of John Kent* 

of his pursuers passed the mouth of the alley in 
full cry; most of the remaining ones stopped 
at the corner, and seeing nothing of the fugi- 
tive, lounged back to the saloon. 

Three men, keener of scent than the rest of 
the hounds, noticed the alleyway and came up 
cautiously. The first one peered in. It was 
Hurlburt. 

The sailor had laid John down, and was shel- 
tered by the deep doorway of a back yard. Hurl- 
burt, dazed by the electric light at the street cor- 
ner, advanced a step or two, looking cautiously 
about him. Something glistened in his right hand. 

“ Come on, Murphy ! ” he called to his com- 
rades. I believe the rats are in here. They 
must have — Ah, here ” — 

Before he could finish his sentence, or raise his 
hand. Bill was upon him. Both men went down, 
and the report of a pistol rang out, the shot bury- 
ing itself harmlessly in the wooden fence. An 
instant later Bill rose, leaving Ralph unconscious. 
As he did so, the other two men came hurrying 
up. The first measured his length before a ter- 
rific left-hander from Bill, who had to take a 
pretty severe knock on the head himself ; and the 
second, unable to stop, was received with another 


To the Rescue. 


203 


sledge-hammer fist, even harder than that which 
had overturned his comrade. 

Again Bill caught up John and ran, heading 
instinctively for the water. 

A rush of feet told him that the shot had 
attracted attention ; but as night brawls were fre- 
quent in that locality, nobody seemed disposed to 
carry the matter further, or follow the stout sailor 
as he made his way rapidly down one street after 
another. As he reached the wharf, a shout from 
the rear proclaimed that the original gang of 
roughs who had started from the saloon had now 
discovered him. He hurried down the slippery 
steps, jumped into the boat, laid John down in 
the bottom, and with one sweep of his knife cut 
the painter. Then seizing an oar, he pushed off, 
just as the foremost of the pursuers caught the 
severed end of the rope, slipped on the slimy 
planking of the stairway, and fell with a splash 
into the water. 

Bill wasted no time in words, but dropping the 
oars into the rowlocks, sent his boat foaming out 
into the harbor before the tipsy rough, pretty 
well sobered by his sudden bath, it is to be hoped, 
was fished out by his comrades. 

As soon as he was fairly out of reach of any 


204 Boyhood of John Kefit. 

missiles that might be sent after him, Dawson 
stopped rowing long enough to take off his jacket 
and throw it over the silent little figure lying in 
the bow of the boat ; then he kept on his course 
toward the city. His head ached from the blow 
he had received in the alley, but he chuckled to 
himself all the way across, as he thought of his 
rescue of the boy and final escape by a hair’s 
breadth. 

When he reached the end of the wharf, there 
was no one in sight. He was hoping there would 
be a chance to take John up to his house; but 
before he could lift him from the bottom of the 
boat steps were heard approaching, and two men 
appeared at the head of the stairs. 

Lay up here — lively, boy ! ” called the fore- 
most, in sharp, crisp tones. 

Bill seized the rope and cast off, drawing the 
boat up alongside the piles of the wharf, so that 
the speaker, who was the first mate of the North 
Star, could easily step into the stern sheets. The 
captain followed and ordered, “ Shove off 1 Give 
way ! ” before Bill could explain a word about his 
evening’s adventures. It was so dark that neither 
of his superiors had noticed the little heap, cov- 
ered with Bill’s jacket, in^the forward part of 


To the Rescue, 


205 


the boat. As they immediately began an earnest 
conversation about some matter of clearance that 
had bothered them that afternoon, he could only 
pull away in silence, rather dreading the moment 
when he should have to tell them of their uncon- 
scious passenger, and crave permission to take him 
home. The North Star lay a full two miles down 
the harbor, and it was probably only by a pretty 
active stretch of the imagination that Bill had 
pointed out her spars when he was carrying John 
over to East Boston an hour before. 

The tide, however, was setting out strongly, 
and the boat swept along at a good rate, driven 
by the powerful pair of arms that held the oars. 
In the course of fifteen minutes they were under 
the bow of the barque, which towered above 
them, straining at her cable. 

Beg pardon, sir,” said Bill, as he fended off 
with the boat hook and flung a coil of rope up to 
one of the crew who was waiting for them. 

“ Well, what is it, man ” 

The wiry little mate was nearest, and had replied. 

“ I could n’t help it, sir, but thar’ ’s a boy 
aboard.” 

What, a stowaway ? on the vessel ? ” 

‘‘ No, sir. In this ’ere boat.” 


2 o 6 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

“ What do you mean ? ” demanded the other 
officer, whose deep, bass tones were in marked 
contrast to the strident voice of his subordinate. 

The boat was now at the companion way, and 
everything in readiness for the officers to go on 
board. 

“ Well, you see, cap’n, I — thar’ was a little 
chap up by one of them grogshops on shore, and 
a big fellow about four times his size hove him 
out into the street. I took the little one’s part, 
nat’rally, and picked him up to carry him home. 
About twenty men started after me, but I man- 
aged to give ’em the slip, and brought the boy 
along, too. An’ thar’ he is, not come to his 
senses yet.” 

“ Well, what are you going to do about it ” 
asked the mate, evidently moved by his sense of 
fair play to side with the boy, but amazed at the 
state of affairs. 

“Why, I suppose, sir,” said Bill, taking off his 
cap and scratching his head rather sheepishly, 
“ the only thing to do is to take the boy home. 
He don’t live fer up in the city. It ’s close by 
where you come aboard, sir.” 

“ Nonsense !” spoke up the mellow tones of the 
captain. “ We can’t spare you, Dawson, with the 


To the Rescue. 


207 


gig, to pull up two miles against the ebb and back 
again. We shall be under way in ten minutes. 
Bring the boy aboard.” 

Bill secretly rejoiced at the order which re- 
lieved him of all responsibility. 

‘*He said his father was away,” he reflected, 
“ and he ’d be wuss off with that big sneak that 
threw him down than he would here. I ’ll take 
good care of him, and send word to Gil Kent, the 
fu’st feller we speak.” 

While he was thus arranging matters to his 
liking, for he felt a strong attachment to the boy 
he had saved, the officers mounted the steps, which 
were pulled inboard after them, and stowed. Bill 
having followed with John in his arms, and laid 
him in his own berth in the forecastle. 

The gig was quickly hoisted to the davits, hal- 
yards creaked through the blocks, sails slowly 
drJpped from the yards, the capstan went round 
merrily to the tramp of the crew singing hoarsely 
at their work ; up came the great anchor, drip- 
ping, to the cathead ; the jib and staysails filled 
in the light breeze, the barque swung round 
majestically, and headed out to sea. 

Past the pale granite bastions of Forts Warren 
and Independence, rippling through the smooth 


2oS The Boyhood of John Kent. 

water before the soft west wind, past the white 
shaft of the Outer Light, slowly round, till she 
headed east by south, now courtesying gracefully 
on the long swell that came sighing in from the 
broad ocean, the good barque North Star, with 
John Kent lying in a rough bunk beneath her 
deck, kept on her way, bound for the Cape Verde 
Islands and Cape Town. 


CHAPTER XV. 


THE NORTH STAR. 

TT was a glorious summer morning. There was 
scarcely a cloud in the sky, save one here 
and there, which might have been in Words- 
worth’s mind when he wrote : — 

I wandered, lonely as a cloud. 

The sun shone brightly down upon the spark- 
ling blue waves of the ocean and the white sails 
of the North Star, now five days out from Boston. 

The wind was fair and she was swinging along 
at eight or nine knots an hour. The crew ac- 
cordingly were in good spirits, and hummed and 
whistled at their work, which consisted mainly 
of light jobs, such as scraping and polishing the 
woodwork, putting a touch of paint here and 
there, splicing ropes, and the like. Once in a 
while, as the wind shifted a point or two, the 
boatswain’s whistle would call the men to the 
braces, to brace or square the yards accordingly. 

The captain was walking to and fro, in the 


210 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

waist of the ship, now and then glancing up at 
the sails, or over the blue waters ahead. 

All these were the common sights of ship- 
board life ; on the after deck, well up toward the 
weather rail, was a spectacle by no means so 
familiar to the crew of a merchantman at least. 

Seated in a comfortable reclining chair, with her 
face heavily veiled and turned from the sun, was a 
lady, whose dark hair, escaping from its confine- 
ment and showing a thread or two of silver, 
announced that she was neither young nor old ; 
rather at the peaceful midsummer of life, when 
the petals of the wild rose still cling to the 
stalk, of even daintier hue than the blossoms of 
June ; and when the first golden-hearted asters, 
opening their starry surprises one by one, face 
serenely the coming autumn tide. The richness of 
the wraps which enveloped her, and the multi- 
plicity of their folds, betokened at once wealth 
and illness. 

By the lady's side, steadying herself with one 
small, gloved hand upon the rail, and with the 
other holding the scarcely larger hand of the 
invalid, stood a young girl looking off dreamily 
over the sea. She could not have been over 
fourteen, though her pretty figure, her dignified 


The North Star. 


2II 


and self-contained poise, as she adapted herself to 
the movements of the ship like a petrel upon the 
wave, and the rather haughty expression of the 
gray eyes under their dark lashes, added two or 
three years at least to her appearance. 

“ Edie,” said the older lady, speaking so faintly 
through her veil that the girl had to stoop to 
hear her, “won’t you take your book and sit down 
beside me, dear } ” 

“ O mother, if you don’t care, I really don’t 
feel as if I could stretch out in a steamer chair 
such a morning as this. You won’t mind, will 
you, so long as I keep near you .? I ’d much 
rather be on my feet.” 

“ No, no, dear, I don’t mind. Only be careful 
not to fall. It seems to me the vessel tips more 
than usual to-day.” 

“ It reminds me of the old-fashioned ‘ Boston 
dip,’ the way she goes up and down,” exclaimed 
Edith, merrily giving a little pirouette, to the 
imminent danger of her equilibrium. “O Captain 
Holmes, is n’t it lovely } ” 

“ Well, rather — from my point of view,” said 
the captain gallantly, as he approached the ladies. 
“ Mrs. Yarbrough,” he added in his deep tones, 
which were never softer or more mellow than 


212 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

when addressing a woman, I hope you ’re bet- 
ter this morning ? ” 

“Thank you, captain, a little. I was waked 
pretty early by a sort of scraping and splashing 
right over my head.” 

“ Mother was afraid the North Star had turned 
over in the night, and was rubbing against the 
bottom of the sea,” put in Edith soberly. 

“I wasn’t able to get asleep afterward,” con- 
cluded Mrs. Yarbrough, paying no further atten- 
tion to her daughter’s saucy interruption than by 
a little pat upon her hand, which still rested on 
her own. 

“It was the holystoning,” said the captain re- 
gretfully. “ I ’ll see that it is done later in the 
day, hereafter. I ’m afraid the men were singing 
at the same time.” 

“ Well, a little,” admitted the lady. 

“ Oh, fare ye well, 

My bonny young gal ! 

Yoho ! Roll the man down ! ” 

sang Edith, imitating the uncouth chorus of the 
watch, one or two of whom, passing by, grinned 
as they recognized the performance. 

“ Captain,” she broke out, suddenly interrupting 


The North Star. 


213 


herself, who is that, rolled up in blankets, away 
up by the — the forecastle ? Is it a sick man, or 
what ? ” 

She puckered her pretty forehead over the 
nautical term, and pronounced it with its full 
and unwonted complement of vowels and conso- 
nants. 

“ The fo’c’sle } ” repeated the captain, following 
her glance. Oh, that ’s Bill Dawson’s baby, 
they call him.” 

A baby ? May I see it, mother ? There is 
nothing the matter with it, is there — nothing 
catching, I mean } ” 

“Dawson, step here a minute,” called the cap- 
tain to a man who was passing. 

The man came up, touching his cap. 

“The ladies are inquiring for your baby. Tell 
them the story.” 

Bill ducked his head bashfully, as his superior 
walked off, and rehearsed his adventures once 
more, as he had a dozen times to the men before 
the mast — passing lightly over his own deeds of 
valor always. 

“ Do you say you know the boy’s father } ” 
inquired Mrs. Yarbrough, with interest, as the 
sailor concluded. 


214 The Boyhood of Johi Kent. 

“ I do, ma’am. Leastwise I did, twenty years 
ago. The boy ’s the very image of him, too.” 

“ How old is he } ” 

“ Goin’ on thirteen. He ’s a knowin’ un, too, 

I ’ll tell ye. Why, ma’am, he ’ll talk by the hour 
about the Cape of Good Hope, as we ’re bound 
fer, and ’ll tell about ostriches, and Zulus, and 
other wild animals thar’abouts, as if he ’d lived 
thar’ fer forty year. I jest have to go off to 
keep him from talkin’, ’cause it tires his head, you 
know.” 

“ Mother,” said Edith decisively, giving her 
hand a squeeze, “ I ’m going to call on the won- 
derful baby. I have n’t outgrown dolls yet, and I 
always liked boy dolls best.” 

Dawson smiled quietly, but led the way to the 
place, rolling along, sailor fashion ; while Miss 
Edith held herself from falling as the ship pitched, 
by daintily grasping ropes and pins in the bul- 
warks. The crew stared respectfully at her and 
curiously at Dawson, who, however, was thinking 
more of his convalescent charge than of the aris- 
tocratic young person behind him. 

“John,” said he, “here’s a young leddy as 
wants to talk with you. She lives in Boston too 
when she ’s at home,” 



Miss Edith Yarbrough balanced herself birdwise, as before, and 
looked down curiously upon the boy at her feet. — Page 21^. 




• i . 



The North Star. 


215 


Miss Edith Yarbrough balanced herself bird- 
wise, as before, and looked down curiously upon 
the boy at her feet. 

She saw a pale face, sweet, but strong, turned 
up to hers, with a pair of keen brown eyes gazing 
straight into her own, as if he were reading her 
very soul. 

In truth she felt a little embarrassed and hardly^ 
knew what to say. It would be ridiculous to 
address this child as a grown up young man ; and 
at the same time baby talk seemed decidedly out 
of place ! 

Won't you sit down.? ” said John quietly, with 
one of his grave smiles. “ I ’d help you, but my 
shoulder is pretty bad still." 

‘‘ I 'm awfully sorry," said Edith, subsiding upon 
the deck beside him. “ Does it ache much .? " 

“ Well, some. But it ’s nice to have you come 
and see me. I Ve been wondering if you 
would." 

“You have .? Why, when did you see me .? " 

“Ever since the second day," said John simply. 

“ I liked to look at you, because you reminded me 
of Dorrie." 

There was a moment’s quiver of the lips, but 
he turned it into a trembly little smile, 


2I6 


The Boyhood of John Kent, 


“ Dorrie ? Who ’s he ? ” 

“ It 's shef said the boy, really smiling this 
time ; “ a girl that lived in the same house with 
me.” 

Is she like me ? ” 

“ Oh, not a bit,” said he eagerly. 

I Edith felt that the comparison was not compli- 
‘'mentary to herself. 

She ’s lame — only one leg,” continued John 
explicitly. “ It was cut off, you know, after she 
was run over, and she has a crutch ; but most of 
the time she hops.” 

“ Was she any relation to that man who pushed 
you } ” 

John looked down and was silent. 

Oh, if you don’t want to tell ! ” 

He ’s her father.” 

It was Edith’s turn to be silent ; whereupon 
John took up the position of interlocutor. 

“ Are you going all the way around the world 
with the North Star, Miss — won’t you tell me 
your name, please } ” 

“ I don’t know — perhaps so ; it depends on how 
mamma is. My name is Edith Yarbrough.” 

“Yarbrough!” John repeated it in a puzzled 
fashion, as if it brought back some dim memory 
to him ; then gave it up with a laugh. 


The North Star. 


217 


Mine is John Kent/’ said he. ** It will be 
jolly to have you on board all the voyage.” 

“What good will it do you if I am at one end 
of the ship and you at the other ? ” 

John had not thought of this. It had not 
occurred to him that this young lady wore better 
clothes than he. 

“Perhaps,” he said after a moment’s thought, 
“ I shall be at your end of the ship. Captain 
Holmes told Bill that he thought I might make 
myself useful round the cabin. That ’s one 
reason why he let me go on the voyage. Only he 
did n’t think how father would miss me — and 
Dorrie ! ” 

“ Dorrie again ! ” exclaimed Edith petulantly. 
“Can’t you talk two minutes without coming 
back to her ? Tell me about your father’s 
shop and the funny old house the sailor said 
you lived in.” 

John began obediently and described his retreat 
in the wall, and the little garret room, and the 
cupola. Encouraged by the interest in her face, 
he kept on with an account of his recent day on 
the Common. Edith laughed uncontrollably at 
Mr. Pettingill, whose soft and lisping voice John 
imitated rather roguishly once or twice. 


2i8 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

just wish he was on this ship!” she ex- 
claimed between her bursts of merriment. “I 
should be laughing at him all day long.” 

‘‘But he’s real good,” remarked John, fearing 
he had not been loyal to his friend, and sobering 
down. “ Lady Courtley likes him ever so much.” 

“ Lady Courtley } Who ’s she } ” demanded 
the girl, pricking up her ears. 

“Why, she lived with us in Mrs. Roberts’ 
boarding house.” 

“ Oh ! ” 

There was something in the tone which hurt 
John ; for he already liked his new shipmate 
enough to be pained by the discovery of any 
imperfection in her. 

“ She ’s lovely,” he said gravely. “ Everybody 
in the house loves her and calls her Lady. Of 
course she is not very rich, but she acts just as if 
she was.” 

Edith yawned and looked back toward the after 
deck. 

“My mother will want me before long,” she 
remarked carelessly, rising to her feet and moving 
off. 

“Good-by,” said John, grieved that she was 
going without a word to him. 


The North Star. 


219 


** Good-by.” 

She hesitated a moment, then turned, came 
back and deftly tucked in a corner of his blanket 
which had blown loose. 

Thank you for telling me stories,” she added 
graciously ; “ and I hope you ’ll be better to- 
morrow. Perhaps I ’ll come again to see you.” 

And off she went with the dignity of a baby 
duchess. 

John watched her admiringly and gratefully, till 
she rejoined the lady in the far-away reclining 
chair. She stood on tiptoe and waved her hand- 
kerchief to him ; a salute which he returned 
feebly with his cap. Soon afterward Bill came 
forward, and finding his little protdge pale and 
tired, carried him below, blanket and all, to take 
a nap. 

From that hour he. recovered rapidly. The 
blow on the head had been a severe one, and he 
had not come to his senses till the vessel was past 
Cape Cod, and well started on her voyage. The 
doctor — for there was one on board — had worked 
patiently over him half of the night ; while Bill 
Dawson, then and ever since, had played the part 
of an efficient nurse. 

The men laughed at Bill when they saw the boy 


220 


The Boyhood of John Kent. 


in his bunk, but he soon became a favorite with 
them all, from the captain down. 

There had been danger of brain fever. This 
was happily averted, and after the first few days 
of weakness he was able to walk about the decks, 
and even help a little now and then. He was 
extremely handy with the needle, and the men 
brought all their mending to him. He would sit 
for hours on a coil of rope, away up in the bows, 
sewing away as quietly as a woman, but with a 
wistful glance now and then toward the west. 

Edith Yarbrough, he had found, was the only 
daughter of the largest owner of the North Star. 
Mr. Yarbrough himself could not leave his busi- 
ness, — he was in a large banking firm on State 
Street, — but his wife, though an invalid, was used 
to traveling alone, and had already tried two trips, 
with her daughter, to the Yosemite and to Florida, 
without essential benefit. 

What she wanted, her physician said finally, 
was a sea voyage. Not a mere pleasure excursion 
of a few days, in a palatial Cunarder or Inman 
ship, across to Liverpool, but a real round-the- 
world trip, occupying several months, in a sailing 
vessel. 

Her husband’s inquiries resulted in his fitting 


The North Star. 


221 


up an elegant little suite of staterooms on the 
barque North Star, which was shortly to sail for 
Africa, loaded with cotton cloth and agricultural 
tools. 

A young physician, who had already acquired a 
remarkable reputation for skill in his profession, 
and who was a personal friend of the family, was 
induced to give up his practice and engage himself 
for the voyage. An ardent love for natural his- 
tory, and the opportunities he would have for 
making collections, weighed strongly in the scale 
when Dr. Harold McAllister was deliberating the 
question a month before. 

All these things John Kent learned by degrees, 
not only from Edith, who managed to find her 
way forward the very day following that of her 
first visit, but from McAllister himself, between 
whom and the boy a strong friendship had sprung 
up. The young doctor loved the human creature 
whom he had brought up out of the shadows of 
life — not of death, for death itself has no shad- 
ows ; they are all on the life-side of the portal ; — 
and John, looking up as he slowly rose from the 
muddy depths of fevered dreams, loved the strong, 
earnest face bending over him. He loved Bill 
Dawson too ; but he could not help feeling toward 


222 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

him as he would to a noble Newfoundland who 
had rescued him from drowning. Such affection 
as he at once yielded to McAllister was reserved 
for a fine and grand soul, like his father’s and — 
perhaps — Dorrie’s. 

You may be sure, however, that he spent but 
little time in analyzing his sentiments toward any 
of those dear to him. These conclusions are 
rather my own, drawn from what I know of the 
boy and those about him at that period of his 
life. 

When he first realized that he was hurrying 
away from his father, and that it would be months 
before he should see him or hear his voice, he felt 
that he should die of heartache and homesickness. 
His anger rose against Dawson, the captain, and 
the doctor, who all seemed members of a conspir- 
acy to put these leagues of gray, trackless water 
between him and the dear old house on the hill. 
Then he thought bitterly of Thomas Wilson, the 
cause of his midnight journey, and wished it had 
been the drunken carpenter that had fallen upon 
the pavement instead of himself. 

After an hour or two of such thoughts, McAl- 
lister would find him tossing in his bunk, with 
head throbbing hotly and feverish pulses leaping 


The North Star. 


223 


in his veins. The strong, cool hand would rest 
upon the little burning fists angrily clenched 
under the blanket ; and the doctor would begin to 
tell him soothing stories of his own father’s old 
home among the Scottish hills, followed by canto 
after canto of “The Lady of the Lake,” every 
syllable of which he seemed to know by heart, 
until the boy forgot his troubles among the dewy 
heather of the Highlands, and the rushing of 
the salt waves past the vessel was lost in the 
sweet ripples of Loch Katrine upon its “silver 
strand.” 

Then gentler and better thoughts would come, 
and John would be in almost as much danger 
from over-excited repentance as from his previous 
anger. 

He sometimes wondered why the doctor never 
spoke to him about God. That was very different 
frgm Gilbert Kent, who was accustomed to allude 
to his heavenly Father in his son’s presence as 
naturally as if he were speaking of some one in 
the next room. 

“I have been so angry,” said John one night to 
Harold ; “ do you believe God will forgive me } I 
feel as if I had struck somebody.” 

A shadow passed over the doctor’s brow. 


224 Boyhood of. John Kent. 

Oh, don’t worry about such things now, 
my boy,” he said. “ Let ’s think of something 
cheerful.” 

Which to John was a strange reason for dis- 
missing the subject. His happiest and gayest 
talks had been with his father over the old quarto 
Bible, or when they walked together in the fields 
near Boston of a Sunday afternoon. He was not 
at all satisfied with the young physician’s answer 
and resolved to question him about it at the first 
opportunity. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


A SONG IN THE NIGHT. 

HAT do you suppose your father thinks 



^ ^ has become of you, John ? ” asked Edith, 
as they sat talking a day or two later not far from 
the steersman. 

John’s position had become a rather anomalous 
one. He did chores and mending for the crew, 
was at the captain’s service, slept in the forecastle, 
and spent a considerable time — by Edith’s con- 
trivance, I believe — with the cabin passengers. 
A silly boy would have been spoiled twice over by 
the favors bestowed upon him by high and low. 
It only made John the more eager to serve. 

“I don’t know,” he replied to the girl’s ques- 
tion, as he had to himself a hundred times during 
the past week. “ I wish, oh, how I do wish there 
was some way to get word to him ! If only Dor- 
rie’s chickens would tell her,” looking up at the 
gulls floating above the barque. 

“ Why don’t you write to them ? ” 


226 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

John glanced up at her mocking, saucy face and 
smiled. 

“No, really,” she persisted. “ Captain Holmes 
says we may meet a westward-bound vessel any 
time ; and if we do, he has orders from papa to 
send letters home by her if she ’ll stop. I ’ve got 
two or three written already.” 

John’s face brightened visibly. 

“ I ’ll write to Dorrie this very day ! ” he ex- 
claimed ; “ and to father, of course. Who do you 
write to } ” he added innocently. 

“Oh, to one of the girls at my school and a 
cousin in New York, and, if I have time, to grand- 
mother.” 

“I haven’t any grandmother; I wish I had. 
But I can write to Lady Courtley ; she ’ll be real 
glad to hear from me, I know.” 

He had no paper; but Mrs. Yarbrough, having 
overheard this conversation, sent Edith down for 
her portfolio, rather to that young lady’s displeas- 
ure, and bade John sit down then and there and 
write as much as he wanted. 

So absorbed was he in his task that he did not 
observe, an hour later, the little flurry in the 
vessel when a sail was sighted ahead. Before 
long, however, he looked up and saw in the 


A Song in the Night. 227 

expectant faces of those near him that something 
unusual was about to happen. 

Springing to his feet he caught sight of a large 
vessel coming directly toward the North Star. 
He made a few eager inquiries of the doctor, who 
had joined the group on the after deck, and telling 
Dorrie and his father where to direct letters, 
hastily sealed and addressed his own to them. 
He had no time to write to Lady Courtley ; for 
correspondence was still a new and by no means 
easy matter to him. 

The stranger, on being signaled by mysterious 
little flags of various colors and shapes, proved to 
be the steam packet Ericson, from the Azores and 
Mediterranean ports to New Orleans. She slowed 
her engines while the North Star sent off a boat 
with the precious home letters, taking a bundle in 
return for friends in the East. The boat came 
back, rising and falling on -the waves; the North 
Star dipped her colors, the Ericson responded 
with three gruff blasts from her whistle, and the 
vessels separated, hurrying farther and farther 
apart, until each was to the other but a mere 
bird’s wing on the horizon. 

John felt a little comforted to know that he 
had actually sent a message back over the sea 


228 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

to those who might that very hour be mourning 
for him. 

The next day was Sunday. Promptly at six 
bells — eleven o’clock — the captain had the crew 
called to the main cabin for prayers and himself 
read the Episcopal service. Now John had never 
before heard it, and the set prayers and responses 
astonished him a good deal. However, by the aid 
of Mrs. Yarbrough, a devout Episcopalian, on one 
side, and Bill Dawson on the other, he managed 
very well with his part. To be sure he was rather 
disturbed between his two friends’ different re- 
sponses, the lady following the Prayer-book implic- 
itly, and Dawson devoutly growling “ Good Lord, 
deliver us ! ” on every occasion that offered ; but 
the boy was really much impressed with the 
beauty and solemnity of the service, and felt more 
at home on board the North Star than he had at 
all up to that timd 

After church was over, he joined the doctor, up 
in the bows of the vessel, and assailed him at once 
with questions about the Prayer-book. Who made 
it } Was it like the Bible ? Did the minister 
always read the same prayers ? Why did every- 
body hurry so fast in the Psalms ? And so on. 

McAllister gave him laughing replies and tried 


A Song in the Night. 


229 


to change the subject ; but the boy was full of 
this one thought and could not be diverted from 
the (unconscious) attack. 

“Did God write it.^* — the Prayer-book, I mean, 
Dr. McAllister ? ” 

The doctor fidgeted. 

“ I ’m sure I don’t know, John. Nobody knows 
about such things.” 

“ Why, there ’s the Bible,” cried John. “ Now 
of course everything in that is true ” — 

He paused for an answering nod ; but to his 
dismay none came. Harold merely flushed a little 
and gazed off over the water. He was too honest 
and too kind a gentleman to wish to disturb his 
little friend’s faith, whatever his own belief or un- 
belief might be. 

“Why, Doctor McAllister, you don’t mean.? — 
you don’t ” — 

He could not put it into words. Harold came 
to his rescue. 

“ I only mean, John, that I know nothing about 
it. I very earnestly hope that it ’s all true ; that 
God is alive; that Jesus rose from the dead, and 
that the Bible is his Word.” 

“That God is alive! Why, doctor, you believe 
my father is alive, don’t you .? ” 


230 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

Certainly,” said Harold, with an indulgent 
smile and a mental wave of his weaver’s beam at 
this young David’s approach with his sling. 

“ But you can’t see him nor hear him.” 

“ No ; but you have, and I see you.” 

‘‘Ah,” said John, his quick wits catching at the 
flaw in his older friend’s reasoning, “but it won’t 
do just to believe the things we see and hear. 
Doctor McAllister. Father says there ’s fire in 
the middle of the earth, and that once the moun- 
tains and the rocks were all hot and melted. 
Don’t you believe that } ” 

“Y-e-e-s,” said the doctor, stepping a little 
more carefully than he had. 

“ Well, sir, you never saw nor heard that 
fire.” 

“ No, my boy, but I ’ve seen the effects of it — 
the cooled rocks, the queer formations of hills, the 
coal fields and the green forests that have been 
watered by the rain that rose from the hot earth 
and fell again. I ’ve seen effects that can’t be 
explained in any other way, but are explained very 
easily by the fire theory.” 

He was using pretty long words, but John fol- 
lowed him, and answered in a moment : — 

“ Father says. Look at the first good man or 


A Song in the Night. 


231 


woman you see, and watch them doing good, and 
working and dying for other folks, and being very 
happy about it all the time. And think how good 
people have always done this in the world. Then, 
says father, you can see that it ’s God who makes 
them so. And it seems to me, doctor, that it ’s 
easier to explain it that way than any other.” 

The doctor was silent. It is possible that the 
matter had never been put to him in just that 
light before. The sparkling, eager face before 
him was a strong argument for the existence of a 
great Power somewhere in the universe which 
could conceive and inspire the soul that looked 
out through those young eyes. 

“That was well spoken, John,” he said gravely. 
“ Let me think it over a bit. I wish I knew your 
father ! ” 

He turned and walked slowly away, leaving 
John in a tremble of delight at his last words. 

In the evening somebody — could it have been 
McAllister ? — started a hymn : — 

“ Out on an ocean all boundless we ride, 

We ’re homeward bound, 

Homeward bound!” 

The doctor’s voice was a sweet tenor, the cap- 
tain’s came in strong on the bass, and Edith and 


232 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

her mother sang the air, while the others joined 
in as best they could. The watch gathered in the 
waist of the ship and listened with caps off. 

“ We ’re homeward bound, 

Homeward bound.” 

The rich melody rang out, while the stars 
looked down on the little vessel floating in its 
world of waters ; and the waves of the tropical 
sea rolled away from the bows, and in the waver- 
ing, tossing wake, in gleaming masses of phos- 
phorescent light. 

After the first verse, one voice dropped out — 
the boyish treble. John could not bear the words 
yet. It was McAllister’s arm that went round 
him in the darkness. 

“ You can sing it, my boy, if I can,” he whis- 
pered. “ It ’s a long voyage, but it ’s toward 
home, you know.” 

John did not give the words any graver import 
in his mind than the speaker meant. He took 
them in their simple, literal meaning, and seeing 
in imagination the North Star speeding on its way 
around its long orbit toward dear old Boston, he 
was comforted. 

And so — God bless us every one ! — may we be. 


A Song hi the Night. 


233 


What matter how long the journey, how rough 
and dreary the road ? Home lies at the end of it. 

John and Harold sang the closing verse with a 
will. Then they all separated for the night, and 
falling asleep, began to dream the dreams God 
sent them ; and all the while the faithful North 
Star bore them onward, ever onward, over the 
dark waves, homeward bound. 



CHAPTER XVI 1. 

THE CATHEDRAL. 

I N due season the North Star came to anchor 
off Porto Praya, the chief town of Santiago, 
largest of the Cape Verde Islands. A part of her 
cargo was discharged here, and she took in sup- 
plies of fresh fruit and water. As all this occu- 
pied the best part of a week, there was ample 
opportunity for the passengers to go ashore and 
make little excursions inland. 

Through the kindness of the Portuguese 
governor-general and his family, ponies were 
placed at the service of Mrs. Yarbrough and her 
friends, including, besides Edith, McAllister and 
John. 

The boy was full of delight and wonder at the 
strange scenery and vegetation of the island. The 
houses of the town were for the most part mean 
and squalid, but once outside its limits, there were 
grand mountains, streams leaping down through 
rugged ravines, groves of cocoanut palms, and 

234 


The Cathedral. 


235 


plantations of coffee, rice, and sugar. On the 
higher portion of the island there were no trees, 
but the labor of climbing the heights was more 
than repaid by the view of the rest of the group, 
the nearest of which was distant only seven miles. 
Against the western horizon a puff of vapor hung 
over the volcano of Fuego, thirty miles away. 

Mrs. Yarbrough’s health improved so rapidly 
that the captain decided, at her request, and in 
accordance with the plans and directions laid down 
by the wealthy banker, to whom the disposal of 
the cargo was a secondary affair, to delay sailing 
for a few more days. 

The air was soft and delicious, its heat tem- 
pered by the sea breezes. The rainy season was 
not far away, however, and it was highly desirable 
to reach Cape Town before it set in. 

One afternoon the party of four had been pay- 
ing a visit to the west coast of the island, not only 
to view its picturesque cliffs and plateaux, but to 
avoid the force of a disagreeable, dry east wind 
which that day blew straight off from the desert 
of Sahara. This hot wind, which, the captain told 
them, was called the Harmattan, is much dreaded 
and detested by the inhabitants of Santiago. In- 
deed, our friends were peculiarly fortunate, said 




236 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

the governor, in experiencing such pleasant and 
wholesome weather. During many months of the 
year alternate storms and droughts are prevalent, 
and the people suffer terribly from fever and 
famine. 

Mrs. Yarbrough and the doctor were riding on 
ahead, with a native guide beside the ponies. 
The excursion was over, and the party were 
making their way toward home. 

Edith’s pony was a lazy little fellow and a 
hungry one, too ; for he continually thrust his head 
down, despite his rider’s pulling at -the reins, to 
nibble at various leaves and stalks by the roadside 
which he deemed appetizing. 

“ What a stupid beast ! ” she exclaimed petu- 
lantly, as she twitched his head up for the twen- 
tieth time. 

“Not stupid,” laughed John ; “only hungry.” 

“ Well, he ’s made us lose sight of mamma any- 
way.” 

“Let’s hurry,” said John, who had preferred to 
walk, and who now seized the pony’s bridle to lead 
him forward. 

“ Don’t, please ! ” 

“ Don’t what ? ” 

“Hurry so.” 


The CathedraL 


237 


“ Why, you said ” — 

“Oh, don’t be tiresome! I said the rest were 
out of sight, that ’s all. Now I can do as I please.” 

John obediently dropped the bridle, and the pony 
finished the bite which he had half made. 

“Let’s do something jolly, all by ourselves,” 
continued the girl, her gray eyes sparkling. 
“ Come on, John, I ’m going up this path.” 

“ But your mother ” 

“ Oh, she won’t mind. She ’s used to me. 
Besides, Dr. Mac will be after us in a jiffy. You 
can stay if you ’re afraid,” she added, pulling the 
pony’s head round to the left. “ Good-by.” 

John’s answer was to spring to her side. 

The path they had chosen at hazard led up the 
brink of a deep ravine. The islands being now 
almost treeless on the high central lands, what- 
ever rain falls either evaporates immediately, from 
the hot, bare soil, or rushes off in roaring torrents 
of an hour’s duration. These impetuous freshets 
have torn out ravines, in some cases so large that 
their sheltered slopes afford farm land, and bounti- 
ful crops of coffee, sweet potato, sugar-cane, and 
other products are raised there. 

There was a deep inlet, like a miniature fjord, 
at the extremity of the gulch along which the 


238 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

young folks now took their way, their older com- 
panions being on a parallel path, a mile or two 
further inland. 

As they neared the end of the ravine, Edith 
cried out with delight. 

‘‘O John! John Kent, just look at this tiny 
little town! Aren’t the houses cunning.?’’ 

“Manuel told us about it this morning,” said 
John, eying the cluster of small stone houses with 
interest. “The governor used to live here, in 
old times.” Then, more soberly : “ We must be 
a good way off our path. Miss Edith.” 

“ Oh, never mind ! they ’ll find us. I must see 
this village — or what’s left of it. I feel like the 
princess in a fairy tale, grown little and walking 
about in a wee bit of a toy village. The palms 
look like those little wooden trees — don’t you 
know .? — painted green, and fastened in flat, yellow 
button-molds.” 

By this time they had reached the main street 
of the town, which was indeed but the continua- 
tion of their mountain trail. One or two beggars 
importuned them, in harsh Portuguese, for alms, 
but for the most part the place seemed asleep 
and dreaming of its past, if not in reality dead. 

A few of the houses were pleasant-looking 


The Cathedral. 


239 


enough, and in some of the shop windows there 
was a tasteful display of bright-colored goods. 
Nearly everywhere, however, was squalor and 
dirt, in the midst of which even the pony seemed 
to pick up his hoofs disdainfully. The English- 
speaking boy and girl did not attract much 
attention, as there were two or three coaling 
stations for British steamers at the Cape Verde 
Islands, and tourists were at this time a by no 
means uncommon sight. They advanced slowly 
along the street, and up a rather steep hill toward 
a large stone building, partially in ruins. 

‘‘Miss Edith,” said John, as they paused, he 
and the pony, for breath, “ I ’m afraid there ’s a 
storm coming up. Don’t you think we ought to 
go back now.J^ ” 

“ Go, if you want to. I ’m going to see this 
old ruin ahead.” 

John shook his head doubtfully, but started on 
again with her, as she urged her small steed 
uphill. The houses thereabouts were dilapidated 
and forsaken. Not a human being was in sight. 
They could hear the sound, faintly, of a moun- 
tain stream, leaping down over its black basaltic 
rocks, in the ravine. As they toiled upward, John 
suddenly thought of his dream, — now seeming so 


240 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

long ago, — and could not help imagining his little 
lame companion halting and fluttering painfully on 
the further skie, in the rough grasp of the ugly 
dog-man.” He felt as if Dorrie were calling to 
him, “Come over! Come over!” From the 
reality of his vision he was recalled to the un- 
reality of his present environment and to his 
little lady charge, by her petulant voice. 

“What are you dreaming about, now, John 
Your eyes are as big as saucers, staring over at 
that hill. Don’t you see it ’s raining ? ” 

A big drop came down, spat ! on the boy’s face 
as he turned it up to the sky. 

“What did you take me here for.?” added 
Edith. “Mother will be awfully worried.” 

He could not tell whether she was in earnest 
or joking. But there was no time for remorseful 
reflection or for meditation. A huge, black cloud 
was rising rapidly over the northern sky, which 
had for some time been hidden by the slope of the 
mountain. Thus far, there was not a glimmer of 
lightning or growl of thunder. Against the massy 
blue-black of the cloud, terrible in its silent march, 
rose the pale broken walls of the ruined building, 
now only a short distance above them. 

“ We must get under shelter,” said John, 


The Cathedral. 


241 


hurriedly, seizing the bridle and leading the 
reluctant pony up a little side path worn by 
generations of feet in the solid rock. 

“ But I want to" go back ! ” cried Edith. 

We have n’t time.” 

“ I will go back to mamma ! I don’t want to 
stay in that horrid old place. There ’s no roof to 
it, anyway, and I shall get wet through ! ” 

She gave a strong pull at the bits, which made 
the little beast beneath her rear and nearly over- 
turn her squire. 

Give me the reins,” said John quietly. 

I sha’n’t ! ” And then, dropping them sud- 
denly, she put her hands to her face and began 
to cry, half from anger and half from genuine 
fear. For the cloud had now nearly overspread 
the sky, and the bare, stony hillside, with its gray 
ruin standing up desolate in the gathering dark- 
ness, was ghastly. The rain as yet fell no faster ; 
only a drop at a time, great, wet splashes, making 
their deliberate black blots upon the rocks beside 
the path. 

John drew the bridle reins over the pony’s 
head, and grasping them close to the bits urged 
him on, while Edith, with white face, clung to the 
pommel, her eyes shut tight to avoid the first 
flash of lightning. 


242 The Boyhood of John Kefit. 

Suddenly the motion of the active little back 
beneath her became easier. The small iron hoofs 
rung on a smooth surface of stone, then stopped 
altogether. 

“Please get down,” said John’s voice. 

She chose to be offended at his assumption of 
authority, and would not even deign to open her 
eyes, much less to dismount. 

A quick step came to her side, and she felt her- 
self lifted from her saddle and gently placed upon 
her feet. John was a sturdy fellow, and though 
his lame shoulder gave him a twinge, it was an 
easy matter for him to carry out his disregarded 
request. 

“John Kent,” began the girl angrily, opening 
her eyes wide now, and stamping her little feet on 
the stone pavement, “ what do you ” — 

But at this point the blaze of those two gray 
stars, under their black clouds of lashes and knit 
brows, was utterly extinguished by a broad glare 
of light — it was more like literal flame — that 
seemed to devour the whole building and the solid 
earth, in its cold, dazzling flood. Then came such 
a rolling, stifling roar of thunder as is rarely heard 
outside the tropics. The walls of the building 
seemed crashing down about the heads of the two 


The Cathedral. 


243 


who stood there cowering under the suddenness 
and overwhelming uproar of the attack. As it 
died away, a sound of rapid hoof-beats fell on their 
ears. The pony, frightened by the lightning, had 
seized the opportunity to make his escape. 

There was a silence, terrible, because it was but 
the vacancy into which that awful Niagara of 
thunder would shortly pour again. It was so dark 
that Edith, uncovering her eyes for an instant, 
could just distinguish the walls around her. She 
put her hands up again instantly, and stood trem- 
bling from head to foot. 

John felt his horror of the storm growing upon 
him, and knew, if he did not conquer it by im- 
mediate action, he should cry out in the wild- 
ness of his fear. There was hardly a living 
creature in God’s world of which he was afraid ; 
but the inherited dread of the mighty enginery of 
the tempest drove the blood to his heart and 
clutched at the very springs of life with mortal 
terror. 

“ Come, Edith ! ” he gasped, taking her hand, 
'‘we mustn’t stay here.” 

The rain-spots on the floor reminded him of 
their exposed position. The girl, still shuddering 
with dread, refused to go. 


244 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

“ You must ! ” 

John was barely thirteen, but there was already 
that in his voice which called for obedience. 

She yielded, suffering him to lead her by one 
hand, while she covered her eyes with the other. 

“ Where are we } ” she murmured. 

In an old church, I guess. A cathedral, they 
call it, don’t they } ” 

Her reply was cut short by another blinding 
flash and almost simultaneous thunder peal. 

He hurried across the floor of what had once 
been the transept, now open to all the destroying 
elements. Jagged gaps alone showed where the 
windows, with their humble traceries and crude 
imagery, had once told, in hues of purple and 
gold, as the peaceful sunset light shone upon and 
through them, the old, old story. The walls were 
still standing, to about half their original height. 
The entire roof had long since fallen in ; and at 
the broken altars the storm held high mass, 
regardless of season and pope. 

At the further side of the transept, just beyond 
the corner formed by the in-curve of the apse, 
was a small oak door, with deep sunken panels and 
huge, curiously wrought hinges. A slab of stone, 
probably once cut from a grave, leaned across the 


The Cathedral. 


245 


jambs. It must have been only the extremity of 
superstitious awe, for which the inhabitants of 
these islands are noted, that had prevented the 
further pillage and destruction of the old cathedral. 

John reached in over the stone and pushed at 
the door. It was locked, but the dry and decayed 
wood in which the hinges were fastened yielded 
slightly. Encouraged by this and urged by the 
rain, which now began to pour down in good 
earnest, he assaulted the ancient portal again. 

‘‘You push, too!” he bade Edith. And she 
added a few pounds to the pressure. 

Presently the door creaked and fell in with a 
crash, carrying a good-sized piece of the post with 
it, as well as John himself, who was putting out 
his whole strength. 

Picking himself up quickly, he helped his com- 
panion in over the obstructing slab. 

The place in which they found themselves 
seemed to be rather a passageway than a room. 
It was very close, and dark as midnight, but a 
glimmer of light came from some inner recess 
beyond. 

Picking their way carefully through the dust of 
half a century, they advanced, step by step, along 
the passage, towards the faintly lighted room. 


246 


>\ 


The Boyhood of John Kent. 

A peal of thunder rolled over their heads, but 
it seemed faint and far away. 

From behind came a powerful draught, raising 
the dust in clouds and extinguishing a match 
which John lighted in a vain attempt to acquaint 
himself with the exact nature of his surroundings. 

“ Wait a bit, Miss Edith,” said he cheerily. 
“ I must shut the front door, and then we ’ll 
be as snug as can be.” 

She made a little nervous clutch at his sleeve, 
hating to be left alone ; but he was gone. After 
what seemed to her an- age of solitude, her boy 
guardian returned, groping his way to her side. 

“It took some time,” he said breathlessly, “to 
make the old door stand up, the wind blew in 
so. And it lightened once — you’d better be 
glad you’re in here! Now let’s see what’s in 
beyond.” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


MR. PETTINGILL’s GOOD NEWS. 

HEN Thomas Wilson awoke, on the 



^ ^ morning after his midnight carouse at 
O’Callaghan’s, it was with a sense, not only of 
physical pain, which alone is a small matter to a 
child of the Eternal ; but with that which is an 
exceedingly serious matter, a vague consciousness 
of having done something shameful. As this 
grew into acute certainty, the man tried miserably 
to lose himself again in dreams, clutching at the 
robes of departing Sleep. 

But she would not stay. Her mission, more 
brief than that of blessed Death, was over, and 
she gave place to her keen-eyed, unrelenting sister 
of the day, by whose side stood a dim form, the 
most lovely, the most august, the most awful of 
the three — Conscience. 

The carpenter, who had debased the calling of 
the Carpenter of Nazareth, groaned and buried his 
head in the hot pillow, striving to shut out her face. 


248 The Boyhood of John KenU 

A hand was laid on his shoulder. 

“ Thomas Wilson, zvhere is my boy ? ” 

The words came dropping down clear and cold, 
into the torment of the wretched man’s burning 
remorse. 

“ Before God, Gilbert, I don’t know ! ” 

He ventured to look up at the face of the 
father, and was startled, even in his own misery, 
at its drawn pallor. 

“ You saw him last night } ” 

Thomas tried to recollect, pressing his hands 
against his throbbing forehead. At length there 
came a vision of a pair of brown eyes looking 
pure lightnings into his, a boyish figure standing 
beside him — then — then — did he strike the 
boy.? No, he could not have done that! Yet 
there was the picture — the little crumpled, silent 
heap on the sidewalk, and bending over him the 
man — ah, yes, a broad-shouldered, tall man who 
seemed to be taking the boy’s part — beyond that 
all was blank. 

He told Gilbert, brokenly, all he knew ; then 
hid his face again, and cried, with sobs that shook 
the bed : — 

“ I didnt strike him, Kent ; I know I did n’t,” 
he groaned. I wanted to pick him up, but they 
would n’t let me,” 


Mr. PettingiW s Good News. 249 

When he uncovered his face he was alone — 
with Conscience, a consuming fire — God. 

Nobody knew what had become of John. His 
father visited every police station in the city, and 
blue-coated men were on the lookout night and 
day for weeks after the date of the boy’s disap- 
pearance. Hurlburt, it was long afterward dis- 
covered, induced, by bribes and threats, every man 
who was sober enough to have taken part in that 
chase through the city streets at midnight, to hold 
his peace. Indeed, only two or three had actually 
seea Dawson push off, with his senseless burden, 
and pull out into the harbor. In reality no one 
had the remotest glimmering of an idea of the 
boy’s whereabouts. 

Gilbert had in some way received John’s letter. 
He had delayed leaving his first location, on 
account of the holiday, and so had obtained his 
information as to Wilson’s conduct in his absence. 

He* had at once left town by the night train, 
and on reaching home in the early morning had 
found Martha, with eyes red from sleeplessness 
and weeping, beginning her weary day’s work. 

A kind word and a pitying grasp of the hand 
were all he could give her. He hurried to his 
own end of the house, only to discover that John’s 
bed had not been slept in the previous night, 


250 The Boyhood of John Kent 

Martha, who had been far too much occupied 
with her own great grief, since helping her 
drunken husband upstairs at two o’clock, to think 
of the boy, could give him no information, except 
that John had gone to the shop the afternoon 
before. 

With a terrible suspicion crossing his mind, 
Kent hurried up to Wilson’s room, and there had 
spoken the six words which fell upon the man’s 
waking senses. 

Hurlburt, of course, was closely questioned, but 
declared he had hardly noticed the boy. Indeed, 
he had not known it was John at all, and did n’t 
half believe it now. O’Callaghan had n’t seen 
any such boy in the saloon. Wilson had got into 
a row with somebody outside the door, and “he 
[O’Callaghan] had sent his bartender to get him 
inside again, and so had kept him out of the 
station house and municipal court.” This in an 
injured and aggrieved tone. 

Both men were privately examined by the 
authorities, and discharged for want of any evi- 
dence against them. There was nobody but 
Wilson himself to swear even to the identity of 
the boy. 

Among other clews, you may be sure that Kent 


Mr, PettingiWs Good News. 251 

hurriedly examined shipping lists, and ascertained 
what vessels had sailed the next morning for 
domestic and foreign ports. It so happened that 
only half a dozen vessels sailed that day — all 
coastwise. Within a week dispatches were re- 
ceived from detectives at every one of the six 
ports : No such boy on board, or heard of. 
Neither the police nor Gilbert suspected his 
presence on the North Star, which was recorded 
as having cleared and sailed at four o’clock that 
afternoon. An unforeseen delay in some formal 
matter of the ship’s papers had, as I have inti- 
mated, kept her over a tide, though she had left 
the upper harbor on time, and her point of de- 
parture was duly noted in the records and in The 
Daily Advertiser that morning. 

Almost heartbroken, but striving to lean upon 
that faith which had thus far been to him the 
shadow of a great rock, Gilbert mechanically took 
up his tools again. He first insisted, however, 
that the entire saloon contract should be given 
up. Wilson pleaded feebly that it would be 
breaking his word ; but Gilbert reminded him that 
he had never given his promise, in the first place, 
and that, moreover, no harm would really accrue 
to the other parties, who could place the contract 


252 The Boyhood of John Ke^it. 

and materials in the hands of some other firm, and 
go on with the work with hardly an hour’s delay. 

Hurlburt was viciously angry when he was 
notified of this decision, but he knew well enough 
that his dupe had, for the time at least, slipped 
from his clutches. He still had further designs 
upon him, however, holding in reserve a threat 
which as yet only lay hidden in the depths of his 
own brain, fertile of evil creations as a swamp. 
One thing, he said openly, he would not do : that 
was, pay a cent to Wilson for the work he had 
already performed on the new saloon. As there 
were assistants to pay, in addition to the labor 
he had himself given, this was a hard blow ; but 
Thomas was in no position to resist. Fortunately 
for him, a large amount of half worked-up lumber 
for the new enterprise lay in his shop. This 
he declared he would hold by mechanic’s lien,” 
until he was at least repaid the amount he had 
expended for materials ; and Hurlburt, knowing 
that he too was treading on thin ice, yielded the 
point. 

Gilbert Kent drew a long breath when the 
wagon drove off with the last chip that belonged 
to the East Boston Company. Shutting the shop- 
door, he turned to his old partner, and said : — 


Mr, PettingilVs Good News, 253 

“ Now, Thomas, we are back again where we 
were before — each with one exception. I do not 
believe you struck my son or injured him — how- 
ever responsible you may be, indirectly, for his 
disappearance. I believe you have told me the 
whole truth, as far as you know it.” 

I have, Gilbert, heaven knows ! ” put in Wil- 
son, brokenly. 

‘‘We have each of us a new object in life, from 
this day forward. You know what your own is — 
to conquer your old enemy, who has mastered you 
so completely again. It will be a hard fight, but 
you can win, with God’s help — a help that is not 
an uncertain matter, but can be counted on every 
time, sure. You have not touched a drop of 
liquor since — since that night. Promise me 
that you won’t for a year ! ” 

“I promise, Gilbert, on my” — He stopped, 
and bit his lip, the crimson mounting to his brow ; 
and hung his head. 

“ On your honor, Thomas ! ” said Kent, seizing 
his hand in his own strong grasp. “If a man’s 
sword is rusty from being laid aside, it ’s a true 
weapon, just the same. Hold it drawn and on 
guard every minute while you are in the enemy’s 
country — or rather while he is in yours — for, 


254 Boyhood of John Kefit. 

thank God! he owns no rood of land in the 
universe.” 

The men were silent for a moment. Then Gil- 
bert went on : “ As for me, my one great purpose 
is to find my boy. I do not believe he is dead. 
I believe I shall hear from him soon. If not, I 
shall leave you, and travel until I find him, or 
drop on the road.” 

He let go his friend’s hand as a sign that the 
talk was over, and both men turned quietly to 
their work as of old — wielding plane, saw, and 
hammer from morning till night, each fighting his 
own battle. 

As yet, Thomas never set lips to a glass, away 
from home. For a hand, frail and slight as the 
petal of a flower, stronger tenfold than even Gil- 
bert Kent’s, was raised between him and his old 
indulgence. 

In the little gray house down by the wharves, 
another conflict was in slow, silent progress. 
When the sparrows, twittering over their morn- 
ing’s allowance of crumbs, twisted their saucy 
little heads on one side, and peered in at the 
chamber window, they must have seen a child 
sitting within, bolstered up in an armchair — not 
a large chair, yet it needed bolsters — a child with 


Mr. PettingilV s Good News. 255 

great blue eyes, always looking out, it seemed, 
toward the ocean. 

“ He ’s there,” Dorrie would say, half to her- 
self. “Oh, I know he ’s there. He used to tell 
me, mother, — don’t you remember } — how he 
wanted to sail ’way, ’way off to sea. I’m sure 
my chickens have seen him.” 

But the gulls, sweeping about on wings aslant 
to the strong “ wave-wind,” only looked down at 
the gray old house, and the white face upturned 
to them, and made no sign. 

Near the chair, in the corner of the room, a 
small crutch, with dust across the top, stood 
against the wall. The cane was still close at 
hand. John had given it to her, and, besides, it 
was handy to knock with, when she wanted a 
change of position or a drink of cold water. Her 
foot ached a good deal in these days ; not the 
one that rested on the cricket, where Terry could 
sleep with his faithful head pressed close against 
it ; but the foot that was gone, that was nowhere. 

“ My nothing - foot hurts me so, mother ! ” 
Dorrie would say, as night came on. And then 
Martha would take the child in her arms, and 
walk to and fro, singing some foolish little song 
of long ago ; sitting down in the old rocker at 


256 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

last, and rocking to and fro, to and fro, until the 
patient girl face grew quiet, and with the tender 
mother voice in her ears — still rocking to and fro, 
up and down — she floated away on a wonderful 
white sea of childish dreams, and through all the 
whispering of the wind, and the rustle of the 
gull wings and the ripple of wave crests, was still 
the sound of mother's voice, somewhere among the 
flocks of cloud lambs overhead, or the foam rabbits 
jumping about her feet, softly crooning the songs 
she had heard in the old farmhouse among the 
pines and apple blossoms, a generation ago. 

After a few minutes Dorrie would very likely 
start awake, with a frightened look in her eyes, 
and the question, Has father come } ” 

Then she would remember and be sorry she had 
reminded her mother, and would say softly, “ Oh, 
it is n’t quite time yet. He ’ll come soon, won’t 
he, mother .? Are n’t you glad he ’s coming soon ? ” 

It was a great cross to her, not to be able to 
make his toast ; and greater still, not to flutter 
across the floor to meet him. But his step always 
came straight upstairs from the door, and a kiss 
and bright smile were ready for him. 

Just what was the matter with the child no 
one knew. Such medical aid as her father could 


Mr. PettingilVs Good News. 257 

reach was obtained ; but no ailment could be 
found, beyond a great weakness and prostration, 
which must be met by indirect means. And such 
means could only be sparingly used. To admin- 
ister tonics and stimulants seemed like efforts to 
restore to strength a broken-winged butterfly ; the 
lightest human touch but further bruised and 
cramped the frail creature. The accident which 
had struck so deep, years before, had left her 
delicate body liable to many ills ; and from the 
terrible anxiety about her father, coupled with 
wakeful nights, and much jarring upon the sensi- 
tive nerves, the little maiden child had lacked but 
one more blow, it seemed, — that of the disappear- 
ance of her playmate and friend, and the fears for 
his safety, — to worry out the flickering embers of 
vitality that were left. 

She herself took by no means such a despair- 
ing view. Her courage was strong, and, while not 
in the least afraid of death, she earnestly desired 
to live in the world where God had placed her. 
So she took without complaint whatever medi- 
cines were given her, and cheerfully obeyed the 
doctor’s minutest directions, always saying in the 
morning that “she really felt better to-day, and 
was almost ready to go downstairs again.” 


25S The Boyhood of John Kent. 

Overhead in the elm the sparrows and one or 
two exiled robins twittered and whistled ; while, 
to Dorrie’s great delight, a genuine cricket, a 
descendant, no doubt, from generations of Revo- 
lutionary crickets, which had made the old house 
their home, chirped a monotonous accompaniment, 
whenever twilight fell, to her mother’s dream- 
song. 

One of Dorrie’s greatest comforts in these days 
was the presence of Lady Courtley. The child 
was so eagerly glad every time her friend came, 
and the visits seemed to do her so much good, 
that Martha one day ventured to broach the 
subject of her following in the path of the Kents, 
and boarding in the old house. It was a consid- 
erable distance to Mrs. Roberts’ Establishment ^ 
(that was what the estimable landlady called it 
of late), and the trip was not an easy one for 
Lady Courtley, now nearing her threescore years 
and ten. 

It was a good deal of a break-up in her quiet, 
uneventful life ; and poor Mrs. Roberts, seeing 
her last “ genteel boarder ” (for she scornfully 
rejected Mr. Pettingill from that class, not openly 
of course, but in the tablets of her own critical 
mind) on the point of departure, scolded and 


Mr. PettingilVs Good News. 259 

mourned alternately. It was at last decided, how- 
ever, that the change should be made ; and, to 
the little invalid’s great delight. Lady Courtley 
was duly installed in one of the vacant rooms 
not far from her own. 

And now, indeed, were dark days for Mr. Pet- 
tingill. He abstained wholly from his constitu- 
tional, drank gallons of tea without milk, and 
gave himself up to the gloomiest views of life. 

Seeing this, in his frequent visits of condolence 
(in which he received, not gave, the customary 
consolation), Mrs. Wilson invited him to join her 
small colony on the hill ; an invitation which he 
eagerly accepted, and thereupon gained, he con- 
fided to Dorrie, a pound and three quarters in 
one week. 

July passed, and August came with its sultry, 
enervating heats. The air rose in little waves 
from the waste land about the old house, and the 
sweet peas and morning glories wilted visibly in 
spite of the assiduous efforts of Waldo, who 
watered them in season and out of season ; per- 
haps that was his simple way of being ^‘instant 
in prayer,” for he never approached the little 
garden without an upward longing for Dorrie to 
get well and John to get back. 


26 o The Boyhood of John Kent, 

One afternoon he came home an hour earlier 
than usual, and entered the house with a wild 
look in his eyes that led Martha to fall back a 
step or two with apprehension. 

“ Land, Mr. Pettingill ! she exclaimed, with 
something of her old spirit. “ What ’s the matter 
now ? Had a fire over t’ your place, or what ? ” 

Mr. Pettingill hereupon treated himself to a 
series of gestures, indicative of intense delight, 
and consisting largely of pantomime laughs, ac- 
companied by frenzied caperings and wavings of 
his hat. 

His landlady scrutinized his face sharply. That 
was not the way in which it was wont to affect 
her husband in his worst days ; but Mr. Pettin- 
gill — no, it was impossible! He was above such 
conduct on principle, and, besides, he detested the 
taste of liquor. 

As she stood there, regarding him with a puz- 
zled look, a feeble voice came from the chamber 
overhead, accompanied by two knocks on the 
floor. 

“ Is n’t that Mr. Pettingill ? What has he come 
home for.!^ Please come up.” 

Before Mrs. Wilson could stop him, he was 
bounding up the stairs two at a time. She fob 


Mr. Pettingiir s Good News. 261 

lowed him as fast as she could, her curiosity fully 
aroused and a faint hope stirring at her heart. 

On reaching Dorrie’s room, Mr. Pettingill de- 
sisted from his previous manifestations of joy, 
and took a seat beside the little maiden with a 
reverent air. In that chamber he always whis- 
pered as if he were in a church. 

Dorrie saw in a moment that something un- 
usual had happened. 

“What is it, Mr. Pettingill ” she asked with a 
nervous tremble in her voice. 

“ Nothing, nothing. Miss Dorrie,” whispered 
Waldo, his face beaming. “ How are you feelin’ 
to-day First-rate } ” 

“ Yes, yes. What is it, please } Do tell me ! ” 

“ Why, I — I — was feeling first-rate myself,” 
stammered the young man delightedly, “ and so I 
supposed you was, too ! ” And he laughed out- 
right. 

Dorrie glanced at her mother and clenched her 
little hands tight. 

“Fact is,” he continued, rubbing his thin hands, 
“ I ’ve had pretty good news to-day.” 

“ Good news ” 

“Yes — ye — er — a — Do you know anything 
about the Cape Verde Islands, Miss Dorrie ?” 


262 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

“ They ’re down by Africa, somewhere, I 
believe.” 

And Cape Town, where ’s that, now 
That ’s in Africa, too, only further off. Do 
tell, dear Mr. Pettingill ! ” 

The hands were clasped now and the good- 
hearted fellow, no longer able to keep his secret, 
the tears rolling down over his own sallow cheeks, 
began tugging at something in his pocket. 

The moment a corner of a white envelope 
appeared, Dorrie seized it, glanced at the hand- 
writing, then hugged it tight to her heart, and 
screamed, “Mother, Mother K then fell back 
among her pillows so white and still that the 
letter dropped to the ground, forgotten, while 
Martha, and Lady Courtley, who had been roused 
from her afternoon nap by the outcry and came 
hurrying in, applied such restoratives as they had 
at hand, hardly knowing what to do at first, for 
Dorrie never before in her life, but once, had 
fainted. 

Mr. Pettingill was for the nonce hustled down- 
stairs, where he and the terrier waited in speech- 
less anxiety for the footsteps to grow quieter 
overhead. 

At last a summons came and up went Waldo 
once more, this time more softly. 


Mr. Pettingiir s Good News. 263 

In her chair by the window sat Dorrie, in a 
halo of radiant joy. 

“ What ’s in your letter > ” whispered Mr. Pet- 
tingill, absently patting his hat in his agitation, 
under the impression that it was Terry. 

“ I have n’t opened it yet. Won’t you, 
please .? ” 

It was the greatest reward she could have 
given him, she knew — beyond a dainty kiss, 
which she drew him down to bestow. 

He took out his knife, and making a sort of 
professional sweep, as if the envelope were a 
particularly stubborn can, opened it, and drew 
from it the contents. 

“ Here ’t is,” said he, laying Mrs. Yarbrough’s 
perfumed stationery in her lap. Then, for want 
of something better to say, Smells good, don’t 
it .? ” 

All three of his hearers laughed the easy laugh 
of happiness, and waited for Dorrie to read. 

Slowly, to make the delight last the longer, 
she opened the stiff folds of creamy, scented 
paper (Mrs. Yarbrough and her daughter never 
used thin, tourist’s sheets ; they preferred to put 
on extra postage), and began as follows ; — 


264 The Boyhood of John Ke^it. 

Barque North Star, July — , 18 — . 

My dear^ dear Dorrie, — I love you enough to know how 
glad you will be that I am safe and well. 

Here the three women (for Dorrie was the 
oldest of all) had to stop to have a little cry for 
thankfulness. Then the girl voice, quivering with 
delight, went on, not without interruptions and 
exclamations of surprise. 

Of course you know how I was out late, and fell down 
and hurt myself. It was my head and shoulder, and they 
ache some still, but it don’t trouble me much, and they ’re 
almost right now. Please tell father, if I don’t have time to 
write him, that the man who got me away into his boat was 
Bill Dawson. They used to go to school together, Bill says. 
He has taken splendid care of me and I ’m very fond of him. 
This vessel is bound for the Cape Verde Islands — 

That ’s what his father’s letter said,” interpo- 
lated Waldo. “ I left him at the shop, reading his 
over the second time. Go on. Miss Dorrie.” 

— and Cape Town. It will be a long time before I get 
back, I am afraid, but I ’ll come as soon as I can, and I am 
with good friends, Mrs. Yarbrough and her daughter. Miss 
Edith. 

She’s about a year older than I am, and real pretty. I 
think you ’d like her very much, for I do. She gave me this 
paper just now, to write to you. 

Dorrie’s voice changed a bit as she read this 


Mr. Pettingiir s Good News. 265 

last, and a trifle of the light went out of her face. 
But it came back with the next sentence. 

Oh, I do want so much to hear from you, Dorrie ! Won’t 
you write, right off? Direct to Cape Town, Africa, in care 
of Mrs. Alexander P. Yarbrough. I just asked Dr. Mc- 
Allister. He ’s a splendid doctor, not very old. He and I 
talk together a good deal. I told him about you, and he 
- says he wishes he knew you, and perhaps he could cure that 
ache you have sometimes. 

He says if you write soon, and put Via Liverpool and 
Suez Canal on the envelope, your letter will get there, — to 
Cape Town, I mean, — almost as soon as we do, for it will go 
by steam, and this is just a sailing vessel. 

Good-by, dear, dear Dorrie. I send a great deal of love 
to your father, and to your mother, and to Lady Courtley 
and kind Mr. Pettingill, and to Terry. And oh, so much to 
yourself! Lovingly, 

Your brother, 

John Kent. 

As soon as she had finished the letter, they all 
wiped their eyes again, touched by his special 
messages which, with the politeness of St. Paul, 
he sent to them by name. Mr. Pettingill did not 
seem to be at all discomposed by his proximity 
to Terry in the letter, but rather to consider it an 
honor to himself. 

Dorothy was much exhausted by the excite- 
ment, and next morning, contrary to the hopes of 


266 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

those about her, was no better, if not slightly 
worse. 

She grew very restless as the days went on, 
and spent more and more hours in gazing out over 
the sea, toward those far-off islands where so 
much 0£ her heart had gone. And oftener still 
she questioned her hovering chickens — “Oh, 
have you seen him } Have you seen him ? Is he 
coming soon ? ” 


CHAPTER XIX. 


THE HIDDEN CHAMBER. 



DITH YARBROUGH followed her guide 


timidly, with mincing steps, along the musty 
passage of the old cathedral. 

“ Be careful,” he called ; “ there may be stairs 
here anywhere. If you hear me tumbling about, 
away down below you, you ’ll know where not 
to go.” 

My lady had not quite recovered her composure 
yet. 

“It*s all very well for you to joke,” she com- 
plained. “You ’re only a boy, and you don’t care 
anything about being shut up in a horrid hole like 
this, with nobody near ” — 

“I don’t call you nobody. Miss Edith.” 

“ And your dress all spoiled, and — ow ! — your 
hat knocked in, and ” — she hesitated for another 
woe in her catalogue. 

“ And your pony gone, and dust an inch thick ? ” 
suggested John. 

It was fortunate that she could not see his 


268 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

eyes twinkle in the dark. His voice was perfectly 
grave. 

“Yes, and lots more. Do you suppose there 
are mice here.^” as a new horror suggested itself 
to her. 

“ Hardly. I don’t believe even a church mouse 
could live just on dust and rocks. But look at 
this, Miss Edith. ” 

“ This ” was a small apartment which must 
have been cut out of the solid rock, upon and 
against which the church was built. It was 
really, I think, the ancient vestry, where the 
priests donned their robes and ornaments pre- 
paratory to appearing before their congregations. 

The young Americans who had taken refuge 
in the ancient pile had no idea of the use of the 
little chamber in which they now found themselves, 
as neither of them had ever been in a cathedral 
of the Roman Catholic Church. Edith was of 
opinion that it was merely a storeroom, while 
John, who had the vaguest possible notions as to 
such edifices, could not get out of his head the 
idea that they were in an ancient tomb. This 
surmise, however, he did not mention to his com- 
panion, lest she should run away from their safe 
shelter. 


The Hidden Chamber. 


269 


“ There ’s one thing we ’re sure of,” said he : 
“ we ’re safely out of the storm, and for that 
matter, there don’t seem to be any more thunder 
and lightning. But just hear it pour ! ” 

The only light in the place was from one small 
window high up in the wall. A bit of red glass 
still remained to tell of the former glories of the 
cathedral, and cast a faint, ruddy light through 
the chamber. 

“I’m cold,” said Edith with a shiver. “This 
place feels like a cellar. No, don’t take your 
jacket off, I won’t wear it ! ” She was beginning 
to feel a little ashamed of her grumbling, which 
was half manner, as John well knew. 

It ’s astonishing what a petulant habit girls, 
otherwise charming, will sometimes allow them^ 
selves to contract. They scream at trifling dan- 
gers, complain piteously of slight discomforts, and 
exaggerate momentary inconvenience into mighty 
trouble — all with the idea, more or less definitely 
present in their pretty heads, that their conduct 
is attractive to persons of the other sex ; the fact 
being that nine times out of ten the impression 
given is quite the reverse of winning — or the 
man’s or boy’s admiration will not be worth 
having. 


2J0 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

John’s quiet and unmoved — save by an occa- 
sional grave smile — reception of her little airs 
and frets and pouts ; nay, humiliating to confess, 
of her exhibitions of dignity as well — was fast 
teaching Miss Yarbrough to despise them herself; 
a result which would have delighted him, though 
he would have been the last to act the part of a 
prig or a pedant, in trying to reform her character. 

“ I ’ll tell you what,” said John, being balked 
of his generous disposition of his jacket, and 
greatly pleased with her refusal of it, “ I don’t 
see why we can’t have a little fire. I ’ve plenty 
of matches and it ’s all stone here.” 

“Then how are you going to get anything to 
burn.?” 

“ The old door. It does nobody any good as 
it is. And your mother can pay the damage, if 
anybody complains. As for the wind, in the first 
place, I don’t believe it blows so hard now, and 
we can build our fire — just a little one, you 
know — right in this corner, out of the way of 
the draught.” 

“Well, do hurry, please. I hate to be left 
alone.” 

“‘With nobody’.?” quoted John slyly, as he 
started on his foraging tour. 


The Hidden Chamber. 


271 


He found it hard work to get any fuel out of 
the old door, after all, it was so firmly bolted 
together. Several good-sized splints had been 
wrenched out from the post, however, at their 
entrance, and gathering these, with a few tough 
bits from the door itself, he managed to make a 
fair armful. A glance out into the unroofed aisles 
of the cathedral showed him that the sky was still 
dark with clouds, and rain falling briskly, though 
the force of the storm had much abated. Turn- 
ing toward the inner chamber again, he met Edith 
in the passage. 

‘‘John,” she whispered, clinging convulsively 
to his arm, “ there ’s somebody or something alive 
in there ! ” 

Now, “something alive” possessed no terrors 
for John. Had it been something with a tinge of 
the uncanny or the supernatural, or a jagged fork 
of lightning, he would have faced it, but with 
a stricture at the heart and a creepy sensation 
around the roots of his hair. As it was, he 
laughed at the girl’s terror, not scofhngly, but 
wholly in a reassuring way. Were I a poet, 
I would say, in a rondeau or a villanelle, that 
there is no silver bullet so fatal to a phantom of 
any sort as a maiden’s silvery laugh. But if 


2/2 The Boyhood of John Kent 

John’s laugh was not silver, it was solid gold, for 
a heartier, tenderer, honester laugh I never knew. 

“ Let ’s go back,” said he, “ and then the 
‘ somethings alive ’ will be two to one. Don’t 
be afraid, Miss Edith. There can’t be anything 
to hurt you here right in His house where he 
put you out of the way of His storm.” 

Edith mentally thought that her comrade’s ref- 
erence to the Most High and his doings savored 
altogether too much of familarity, but she de- 
ferred her criticism until a more fitting season. 
She hated to go back, but she was still more 
afraid to stay in the passage alone. Who knew 
what bony fingers might close about her throat, 
or drag her down to dungeons, never more to be 
seen of mortal eye!* John’s laugh was far better 
company, she could not help admitting, than the 
fitful sighing of the wind through the eyeless 
sockets of the old cathedral. 

Holding his jacket like a little child, she fol- 
lowed him once more into the room from which 
she had just fled with palpitating heart. 

John walked in boldly, talking all the time, to 
prevent the silence from frightening her. As he 
had expected, nothing was to be heard or seen, 
beyond the bare walls, indistinct in the reddened 


The Hidden Chamher, 273 

light from the little pane, and the dull rustle of 
rain and wind outside. 

“Here’s where we’ll have the fire,” he chat- 
tered on. “Where the smoke’ll go to, I don’t 
know. If it gets too thick, why, we can go out 
into the passage again, anyway. Will you hold 
the matches and splints, please } There — I ’ll 
just whittle up a few shavings for kindling — 
my ! is n’t this oak wood tough ! Now a match 
— thank you. Miss Edith ” — 

“ Do call me Edith,” she broke in impetuously. 
“ One would think you were forty, and I thirty, 
to hear you ‘ Miss ’ me ; or else that you were a 
servant ! ” 

She blushed a little as she made the last sug- 
gestion. But to John, who had so often heard his 
father read “Paul, a servant of Jesus Christ,” the 
word carried no unworthy associations. 

“ I shall be glad to be your servant as long as I 
can,” he said simply, looking up at her, from his 
whittlings. “But it ’s nice to call you Edith, just 
as I say ‘ Dorrie’ at home.” 

Edith bit her lip in the darkness and drew her- 
self up a little. But then it was more difficult to 
keep her hand on John’s shoulder, which she had 
to do or be dreadfully afraid, every minute. His 


^74 'The Boyhood of John Kent. 

back was reassuring ; but oh, she did wish he 'd 
get through with those tiresome kindlings and 
turn round ! 

Flash ! went the match. They watched it 
breathlessly, and presently a tiny flame shot up 
through the shavings, throwing a cheery glow 
around the old stone cell, which immediately began 
to have a homelike aspect. 

“There,” cried John, in a tone of great satis- 
faction, “now you may really say there’s some- 
thing alive here. Hear it purr ! ” 

The rustle and snapping of the little fire lifted 
the load of apprehension completely from Edith’s 
mind. 

“It’s a comfort,” said she brightly, “to hear 
one’s mother tongue again, after a week of this 
Portuguese jargon. The fire speaks good, honest 
English.” 

“ What does it say ? ” 

For a reply, the girl broke out into the old 
song : — 

“’Mid pleasures and palaces 
Though we may roam, 

Be it ever so humble, 

There ’s no place like home I ” 


and sang.it through to the end. 



The rustle and snapping of the little fire lifted the load of 
apprehension coinpletelv from Edith's mind. - Page 57./. 



The Hidden Chamber. 


275 


All the while she was singing, the fire’s soft 
accompaniment filled the pauses and kept up its 
own low, contented murmur. 

When Edith’s last rich contralto note died away, 
there were tears in the boy’s eyes. Perhaps it 
was from the smoke, which hung around the ceil- 
ing of the room, in a thin blue cloud. When John 
spoke, it was in his natural boyish tone. 

‘‘I don’t see why it isn’t smokier here,” he 
began. “The draft comes in from the passage- 
way, and ” — 

Bang ! came a great stone down upon the floor, 
followed by a rush of gravel, and the sounds of 
some struggling body almost directly above their 
heads. 

Edith sprang up with a scream of terror, and 
clung to John’s arm, speechless with fright. The 
noise ceased as suddenly as it had begun, and 
nothing could be heard but the light drip of the 
rain outside and the crackling fire within. 

“Edith,” said John, after waiting in vain for 
further demonstrations from their unseen guest, 
“it’s like an enchanted palace, in a fairy story. 
I shouldn’t be at all surprised if an ogre or a 
gnome should pop up through the floor, should 
you ? ” 


2/6 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

“O John, le— let’s go!” she whispered, her 
teeth fairly chattering and her heart thumping so 
she could hardly utter the words. 

Another fall of gravel and a renewed scratch- 
ing, panting, and struggling somewhere above 
them. 

It was John who, reluctant to fly before an 
unseen and unknown enemy, suddenly announced 
the discovery of the solution of the puzzle. 

Protected by a jutting mass of stone, and there- 
fore in the shadow, was an opening like a small 
door, except that it was at least six feet from 
the ground. John uttered an exclamation, and 
pointed to this hole. A strange sight met the 
girl’s eye, rather adding to her fright than dimin- 
ishing it. It was an elongated, pale face staring 
down at them, from the midst . of the smoke. 
From its chin depended a hoary beard. Planted 
firmly upon the edge or sill of the door were 
two white streaks, thin and bony, where its hands 
should be. It spoke no word, but remained as 
motionless as the rocks themselves, gazing upon 
the intruders with lackluster eye. 

Edith hid her face on John’s shoulder, but had 
no voice for her terror. 

The boy himself could not shake off an eerie 


The Hidden Chamber. 


277 


sensation of dread, such as always assailed him at 
any suggestion of the unearthly. He would not 
yield to the horror that was stealing over him, but 
cried out, Who are you } What do you want ” 
at the same time giving the fire a kick which sent 
a volley of smoke and sparks directly towards the 
strange creature. 

The effect was immediate and startling. It 
shook its head as if disturbed or angered at the 
smoke, uttered a queer sort of bleat, and half slid, 
half sprang down upon the floor at their very feet. 
Edith shrieked, and John caught up a firebrand, 
but the author of their fright stopped for no 
conflict ; followed by another discharge of gravel 
from the wall, he dashed past them, and out of 
the passageway, almost overthrowing the cowering 
girl, in his wild haste to get away. His flight was 
not so swift, however, that John did not make out 
his identity. 

'‘O Edith,” he cried with a sudden burst of 
relieved laughter, ‘*a goat! Not a ghost, but a 
goat I ” 

Edith raised her pale face, to see if he were 
joking. No; it was true, and clear enough that 
the animal had been concealed in the recess till 
driven out by smoke. 


278 The Boyhood of Joh 7 t Kent. 

“Anyway,” said Edith, with a tremble in her 
voice which showed that she was not yet wholly 
reassured, “ if it was a goat, it can talk. Hark ! ” 

They listened. Voices, unmistakably human, 
and as unmistakably angry, came echoing through 
the vaulted passageway. 

“Wait here,” whispered John, gliding off 
toward the ruined portion of the cathedral. In 
less than a minute he was back again, looking 
serious. He told Edith the plain truth, keeping 
back nothing. The harmless four-legged ghost 
had decamped, following the route taken by the 
pony ; but in the cathedral, grouped near the 
main entrance, and making excited gestures 
toward the low passageway, were a number of 
substantial apparitions on two feet, seemingly 
bent on mischief of a most unpleasant character. 
All of them were armed with bludgeons, and one 
carried a gun. They were apparently natives of 
the town below, and must have seen the English 
boy and girl take refuge in the cathedral. This 
in itself was desecration, in their superstitious 
eyes; and it was probable that some child or 
peasant woman, lingering near as the storm 
abated, had witnessed or heard the demolition of 
the old door and had smelled the smoke of their 
fire. 


The Hidden Chamber. 279 

The report that their cathedral was invaded, its 
walls broken down, and finally the threatened 
destruction of the sacred ruins by fire, had roused 
the ordinarily peaceful inhabitants of the ancient 
capital to fury. This self-appointed and quickly 
organized band of vigilants, fortunately ignorant 
of the precise number of evil doers they were to 
punish, had now cornered the fugitives like rats 
in a wall. Mingled with their fierce glances and 
gestures, John could discern a certain exultation 
in their swarthy faces as they pointed toward 
the opening. 

All this he imparted to Edith in half the time 
it takes to write it ; there would not be the slight- 
est use in trying to explain matters, they knew. 
Neither of them could speak a word of Portu- 
guese ; and there were the eloquent broken door 
and blue curls of smoke. 

Soft steps were heard on the stone aisles, and 
the harsh voices became silent. John felt that 
action must be taken, and that without delay. 


CHAPTER XX. 


AT THE ENDS OF THE EARTH. 

EAVING Edith once more alone, John 



^ ' hurried back to the entrance of the 
passageway, reaching it considerably in advance 
of the attacking party. Aided by tht, deep 
shadows of the cathedral, he succeeded in thrust- 
ing the broken door into its place, without 
exposing himself to view. The result was as he 
had hoped. The men fell back in some confusion, 
seeing a barricade erected, and fearing an am- 
buscade. The crumbling walls of the ruin echoed 
with their vociferous comments and cries, now no 
longer subdued by the hope of a surprise. 

John hastened to Edith’s side. Rather to his 
amazement, he found her cool and collected. It 
seemed as if fright had done its worst with her, and 
now the pendulum was swinging the other way. 

“ What do you mean to do ” she whispered. 

“I don’t know, yet. The door will frighten 
them back for a few minutes. They’ll begin to 
throw big rocks against it soon, I expect.” 


m 


At the Ends of the Earth, 281 

John was wrong there. Nothing would have 
tempted them to commit the sacrilege of batter- 
ing down a door of this holy place. When it 
came to battering down a heretic intruder, that 
was another matter. 

“ Where do you suppose that goat came from, 
John } ” 

‘‘Why, from that hole, of course.” 

He did not see what she was driving at. 

“How did he get there.? Not through our 
passage, for the door was fastened till we came.” 

“ That ’s so ! He must have come from out- 
side. The hole up there is a tunnel, may be, 
leading out ! ” 

He sprang toward it and, aided by his old agil- 
ity in climbing to his mousehole in his father’s 
shop, was up in a minute. 

“I ’ll explore,” he called back to Edith. “We 
don’t want to be caught in a trap here, and be 
smoked out like the goat.” 

After a few seconds, which seemed hours to the 
girl, he came backing down, bringing a stream of 
gravel, and unable to stop himself till he landed 
on the floor of the room, exactly as their long- 
haired visitor had descended — except that John 
had the advantage of not returning head first. 


282 The Boyhood of John Kent 

“ Hurry, Edith ! ” he exclaimed, seizing her 
hand. “ It ’s all right. We ’ll be out in a jiffy. 
Wait — let me get up first and then I ’ll" pull 
you up.” 

She did not need much pulling after all. Pro- 
jections in the rock afforded ample support for 
her little feet, and she soon crouched beside him 
in what she now saw plainly was an ancient door* 
way, from which a flight of stairs, or a ladder, 
may once have reached to the floor. 

John jumped down once more and stamped out 
every spark of fire, then was quickly at her side 
and in advance. 

The tunnel was originally, no doubt, of height 
sufficient to allow a man to walk erect ; but earth 
and stones falling in had choked it, covering the 
steps far out of sight, and leaving but a narrow 
and low passage, barely large enough to admit an 
animal of the size of a goat. 

Creeping on their hands and knees they worked 
their way upward, dislodging as little gravel as 
possible, and speaking not a word. After a few 
yards- of this progress, a light glimmered ahead; 
it grew larger and brighter, and presently they 
emerged on the hillside at a point entirely hid- 
den from any one in the cathedral proper. The 


At the Ends of the Earth. 283 

mouth of this long-disused entrance by which, 
it may be, the priests stole in and out from their 
solemn offices at the altar, was in the form of a 
small cave, evidently a frequent resort of goats 
and asses seeking shelter from the storm and 
burning sun. A strong draft came from within, 
bringing an odor of smoke from the hidden 
apartment. Of course this draft had never been 
felt so long as the door into the apse remained 
closed, and the inhabitants of the present gener- 
ation knew nothing of the rear stairway or exit. 

Rain was still falling lightly as the fugitives, 
crouching and taking advantage of every bush 
and heap of rock, glided stealthily along, not 
toward the path by which they had ascended -to 
the cathedral, but in a direction which John 
thought would take them out somewhere near 
the Porta Praya trail, this being, as I have said, 
further inland. 

For half an hour they clambered over the rocks, 
drawing freer breaths as no pursuers appeared on 
their track. As they rounded a small knoll two 
miles at least from the scene of their adventure, 
Edith uttered an exclamation of delight. Just 
ahead of them a pony was feeding. He had a 
white nose which was strangely familiar. He 


284 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

was nibbling at the herbage among the rocks 
with an assiduity that no other pony could have 
displayed ; in short, it was the runaway, shrewdly 
halting between the two termini of his route. 

He submitted with dignity to his recapture by 
John, looking at him out of one eye, with an ex- 
pression which plainly said : ‘‘ If you won’t say 
anything about it, I won’t.” 

Once mounted on pony’s back, Edith's courage 
and spirits rose, and she became her old saucy 
self. John plodded patiently by her side, smiling 
at her feigned petulances, answering her merry 
sallies in like vein, but keeping a sharp lookout 
in the rear. Before they were in sight of the 
roofs of Porto Praya, two figures appeared, 
hurrying along the trail to meet them. It was 
McAllister and faithful Dawson, who were 
troubled by the long absence of the young peo- 
ple, though they had surmised that the runaways 
had sought some refuge from the storm and were 
waiting for it to cease. 

The greeting between the parties was warm, 
and battles were fought over again, as all four 
turned their faces toward home. 

Upon reaching the barque, where Mrs. Yar- 
brough preferred to stay during their sojourn at 


At the Ends of the Earth. 285 

the islands, they found that lady terribly alarmed 
at their nonappearance. Her apprehension was 
by no means allayed by the account they gave 
of their experiences, and she slept but little that 
night. The captain and the rest of the party 
were inclined to make light of the adventure, but 
the very next morning the governor general came 
on board with a grave and troubled face. Com- 
plaints had already been made to him, he said, of 
the desecration of the cathedral by strangers. 
Rumors were afloat of violence intended, with 
reprisals on the property of the Americans. The 
governor ended by begging them, in the cause 
of order and quiet, to weigh anchor and continue 
their voyage, which he knew had already been 
delayed beyond the time originally set for their 
departure. 

While the Yarbroughs and Captain Holmes 
were receiving the excited and voluble little 
Portuguese official, a smart-looking gig dashed 
up, and the British consul, from a neighboring 
island of the group, presented himself at the 
side. Upon being welcomed with due honor, he 
preferred the same request as that which the 
governor had made known. News of trouble 
from Santiago had already reached them across 


286 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

the straits, and the consul’s earnest advice was 
to avoid all possible collision with the islanders, 
whose fury would subside with the departure of 
the hated foreigners. 

Captain Holmes, therefore, after consultation 
with his officers and passengers, sent an im- 
perative recall to two or three men who were 
on shore, bade farewell to the reigning powers, 
and at precisely noon set sail with a fair wind 
for Cape Town. 

There had naturally been some discussion as 
to John’s continuance of the voyage. Mrs. Yar- 
brough kindly offered to advance him a sum of 
money sufficient to pay his passage home in the 
first vessel from that port to the States. On the 
other hand, it would hardly be safe for the boy 
to remain at Porto Praya, or in its vicinity, where 
he might be recognized as one of the cathedral 
offenders, and suffer serious injury at the hands 
of the would-be avengers. The governor also 
said that he knew of no steam vessel likely to 
leave the Cape Verde Islands for several weeks 
northward bound, and that John probably would 
reach home as soon, if not sooner, by taking a 
steamer up the east coast of the continent and 
through the canal. It was, therefore, decided 


At the Ends of the Earth. 287 

that he should accompany the family on their 
further journeyings — much to the satisfaction of 
all on board. 

It should be stated that, before the governor 
left the barque, Mrs. Yarbrough placed in his 
hands a considerable sum of money, to be used 
in replacing the oaken door in the cathedral and 
the balance to be distributed among the poor of 
the parish. Bearing this balm for hurt minds in 
his pocket, the ruler of this small kingdom re- 
turned to the seat of government, where, it may 
be presumed, he succeeded in healing the wounds 
left by the visitors. At any rate, the matter was 
never heard of again. 

The North Star made a good offing, and for 
several days enjoyed smooth seas and light, fair 
breezes. But the stormy season was at hand, and 
soon Captain Holmes realized that it would take 
his best seamanship to bring his vessel safe into 
port. 

From Porto Praya to Cape Town, as the crow 
flies, is a trifle over four thousand miles. A 
Cunard steamer under favorable circumstances 
would make the distance in twelve days. Seven 
long weeks elapsed before the North Star beat 
up against an east wind past Mouille Point, and 


288 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

came to anchor in the sheltered expanse of 
Table Bay, under the lee of its splendid break- 
water. 

John and Edith stood side by side by the taff- 
rail, which, as it was floodtide, was nearest land. 
Directly before them lay the spires and roofs of 
Cape Town, in the rear of which the bold spurs 
of Devil’s Peak and Lion’s Head towered three 
thousand feet in air, their summits swathed in 
the peculiar white cloud that a southeast wind 
always wraps about these peaks in dense folds. 

The base of the mountain was covered with 
luxuriant foliage of oaks, firs, and garden shrubs, 
and dotted with villas of wealthy suburban resi- 
dents. Hardly a cable’s length from their own 
vessel a monstrous ocean steamer was discharging 
her cargo at the docks, with a great rattling of 
machinery and shouting of British sailors, who 
seemed to spend far more exertion in ordering 
and driving the coolie laborers on the wharf, than 
in actually lending a hand to the work. The 
scene on all sides, close at hand, was one of 
bustle and activity, such as they had not seen 
since they left Boston, while the solemn heights 
almost overhanging them lent a grandeur and 
impressiveness that can hardly be realized by 


At the Ends of the Earth. 289 

those who have not visited the modern city of 
Cape Town. 

I said that the two young people were on deck 
drinking in these novel and grand sights ; Mrs. 
Yarbrough was not with them. The long and 
stormy passage from the island had proved too 
much for her strength, and she had not left her 
berth for weeks. 

Next day she made a great effort and with the 
rest of the party went ashore, the health officer 
and other government officials having completed 
their examination. Through the kindness of a 
resident English family, to whom Mrs. Yarbrough 
had letters, she obtained lodgings in a villa at 
Wynberg, about six miles by rail from the city 
proper. 

Here the poor lady sank into a low fever, from 
which, after a month of utter prostration, she 
began slowly to recover. All this time John 
was a constant attendant upon her and her 
daughter. They could hardly have told whether 
they regarded him as a servant or as a member 
of the family. Certainly he served, and was 
proud and happy in so doing. The same Master 
who bade his disciples wash one another’s feet 
decreed that no joy should be greater than that 
of glad and loving service. 


290 The Boyhood of John Kent. i 

So the months of our winter — the summer of 
Cape Colony — passed, and still John could not 
leave his new friends. He had heard from Dor- 
rie and his father almost immediately upon his 
arrival. After telling of the joy of receiving his 
first letter, Dorrie wrote: — 

You do not know how nice it is, dear John, to have Lady 
Courtley here. We often talk about you, and what strange 
things you must see, and say what a lot of stories you will 
have to tell when you get home. 

I suppose Miss Edith is a tall, strong girl, isn’t she? I 
should like to see her. Do you take long walks with her, 
and climb hills when you are on shore? Mr. Pettingill sends 
his love, and wants to know if there is any hunting near Cape 
Town. He says he always wanted to hunt lions. Terry 
sends you a mark of his paw. Here it is. Father was so 
glad to hear that you were getting over your fall. He cried 
a little when I told him you sent your love. And then he 
said, “Tell him I say, God bless him!” And, O John, 
father has been well ever since you went away! I am so 
happy and happy about it ! I hope you will come home as 
soon as you can. The chickens look as if they had seen 
you. I send you my dear love by them and by this. 

Your little 

Dorrie. 

Not a word, you see, of her increasing weak- 
ness. She did not want to worry him, and she 
was sure he would take the earliest possible 


At the Ends of the Earth. 


291 


opportunity to return home. The illness of Mrs. 
Yarbrough, with her demands upon her attend- 
ant, never presented itself to Dorrie’s mind. 

She could not help longing to hear his step 
and his merry voice, and she had a calendar, — 
issued by the firm which employed Mr. Pettingill, 
and embellished by representations of various 
appetizing fruits such as olives, nectarines, and 
Bartlett pears, growing in a proximity and pro- 
fusion utterly regardless of climate and season, — 
whereon she marked off the days, one by one as 
they passed. Some of the marks were very 
crooked and trembly, and one or two were 
blurred ; these were her hard days, when her foot 
gave sharp twinges and the sun made her feverish 
and Terry’s barking gave her a headache ; when 
Africa seemed too far away for any one ever to 
come back from its shores, and life was nothing 
but a hot, glaring, headaching hopelessness, to be 
dizzily limped through. 

Still no word of complaint in her letters, 
written in straggling, childish characters to her 
‘‘Two-feet,” across the ocean. 

It was late autumn before she received an 
answer to her first letter. John was then hoping 
to leave Cape Town by December first, at the 
latest. How he was disappointed, we have seen. 


292 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

your duty at all costs, my boy,” wrote his 
father, when he heard of this new complication. 
‘‘I miss you terribly; but if John Kent came 
home when God had given him work to do some- 
where else, I should miss you still more. The 
worst kind of missing, my dear son, is where you 
look right into another’s face and miss him, miss 
his own true noble self, and see only a mean, 
cowardly creature in his place.” 

John showed the letter to McAllister, who mar- 
veled inwardly that such grand words should 
come from a carpenter ; but when he reached that 
point, he suddenly recollected, and wondered no 
more. An hour or two afterward, John found the 
young physician sitting under a yew tree in the 
villa garden reading the Book of Luke. 

From Mr. Pettingill came but one epistle, brief 
and to the point, as follows : — 

Mr. John Kent: — 

Dear Sir, — I ship you this day, per Globe Transatlantic 
Express and Parcels Company, Two (2) Cans Preserved 
Prunes and Two (2) Cans First Quality Pickled Oysters, 
with my best respects. I am in good health and trust you 
are the same. 

Your obedient servant and well-wisher, 

W. Pettingill. 

P. S. Do not open the soldered end, and keep in a cool 
place. 


At the Ends of the Earth. 


293 


Edith, and her mother too, received messages 
from home, though of different tenor. As this is 
a chapter of letters, a portion of one of Edith’s 
which she had received from her father and read 
aloud may not be out of place. It was dated 
November 12. The special passage which inter- 
ested John was this : — 

I have been very busy this fall, not only in the bank, but 
in other matters of real estate which have bothered me in 
the courts. 

“ He always talks to me about business and 
politics,” explained Edith. 

There is a piece of valuable property in the Fort Hill 
district, the ownership of which has been contested for the 
last dozen years. Your grandmother is one of the heirs at 
law, who claim that a certain deed was made by a previous 
owner, away back in 1818, but not recorded, and that by the 
terms of that deed the estate vested in our family. The 
original owner was unfortunate in his habits, lost his money, 
mortgaged his house two or three times, and finally ran away 
and died in foreign parts, leaving affairs in a general mix. 

His mortgagees took possession of the land and house, 
and sold them, the deed to your great-grandfather having been 
in the meantime lost. Afterward it turned up, and the parties 
went to law about it. It looks now as if we should prevail. 
Your grandmother is a good deal excited over the matter, 


294 Boyhood of John Kent. 

and' can talk of nothing else. It ’s a queer old place, this 
house, in a vacant lot penned in completely by business 
streets. 

John’s eyes had been growing rounder and 
rounder. 

“Why,” he exclaimed, when this point in the 
letter was reached, “ it must be the very house I 
live in ! Don’t you know how I told you about 
the funny way you had to go in through an alley 
to get at it } Oh, I do hope it will turn out to 
be yours ! ” 

“ It must be worth a great deal,” observed Mrs. 
Yarbrough feebly, from the bed. “ Go on with 
the letter, Edie.” 

There ’s one piece of bad news I ’ve got to tell you. Do 
you remember that pair of beautiful Worcester vases that 
Sir Edmund Horton gave me and that we kept in the draw- 
ing-room cabinet? Well, they’re gone — stolen, I suppose, 
while we were at Newport last summer. We ’ve looked high 
and low for them and put the police in possession of all the 
facts, but thus far not a trace of them has been found. It 
must have been a cunning thief who stole them, for there 
were plenty of more showy articles around not worth a tenth 
part of their value. I believe there ’s a gang at work on the 
Avenue and all through the Back Bay. 

Don’t you remember that elegant little malachite table 
which Mrs. Norton had stolen from her house last June? 


At the Ends of the Earth. 


295 


It turned up in a Chicago auction room a month ago, but 
nobody knew where it came from, an honest dealer in 
second-hand furniture having bought it from a stranger. 

A week ago last Tuesday was our presidential and state 
election — which I suppose does n’t interest you South Afri- 
can ladies in the least. There was great excitement, though, 
all through the States. The “solid south” voted squarely 
for Hancock, and an almost equally solid north for General 
Garfield. The result was uncertain till late at night, and the 
feeling so intense that it was almost like war times. New 
York State, with its thirty-five electoral votes, turned the 
scale for the Republicans, and Garfield is elected. Massa- 
chusetts is always strongly republican on presidential years, 
and returned Governor Long by a heavy majority. All over 
the country the newspapers are still full of hot-headed edi- 
torials on one side or the other. The campaign was bitter 
and personal. A host of disappointed office seekers are 
sowing ugly seeds of discontent north and south. No one 
can tell what will come of it; but with James A. Garfield 
and Chester A. Arthur at Washington, and a population of 
sensible and law-abiding people, we hope and believe that 
no violent deed will result from the ill-feeling which, after 
all, centers in individuals rather than animates the masses 
of either party. 

There, my dear, you have had enough politics by this 
time, I think. Tell your mother that the Adamses have 
moved ; — etc. etc. 

Letters received shortly afterward announced 
that the lawsuit had been decided in favor of Mr. 


296 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

Yarbrough’s grandmother, now over eighty-five 
years of age. The old lady did not live long to 
enjoy her triumph, but left houses and lands 
behind her before the winter snows had begun 
to melt. As no will was found, the ancient 
house and land descended to her grandson, Mr. 
Yarbrough. 

Edith and her mother now desired more ear- 
nestly than ever to return to Boston. Cape Town, 
with its associations of sickness and bad news, 
had become a dreary place for them. 

Still, Doctor McAllister did not think it pru- 
dent for his patient to be moved. John and the 
doctor made one or two excursions into the back 
country, and enjoyed such adventures as would 
have delighted the heart of Mr. Pettingill. They 
killed but little game, however, for Harold Mc- 
Allister was too ardent a lover of nature to want 
to needlessly stop the beating of a single heart 
in its leafy coverts, whether of bird or beast. 
His collections of plants and minerals increased 
rapidly, John taking part enthusiastically in pro- 
curing specimens. I hope Harold’s judgment as 
to the necessity of Mrs. Yarbrough’s delay was 
not warped by his eagerness in his natural history 
pursuits ; and, indeed, I am sure it was not. For 


At the Ends of the Earth, 297 

Harold’s mental and moral make-up was such as 
to have rather led him to advise haste than delay 
in leaving Cape Town, had he discovered the least 
tinge of self-interest in his motives. 

March and April were glorious months in Cape 
Colony, with sunshine, flowers, and cool, invigo- 
rating breezes. The North Star had long ago 
disappeared below the western horizon. One by 
one, during the following month, the doctor’s cases 
of specimens were packed and boxed for the long 
journey home. On Monday morning, the sixth 
day of June, Mrs. Yarbrough, Edith, now a slim, 
handsome girl of fifteen, McAllister, and John 
Kent, bidding their Wynberg entertainers fare- 
well, went on board the steam packet Zanzibar, 
from Cape Town for Port Said, the Mediterra- 
nean terminus of the Suez Canal. 

Edith and her mother were still saddened by 
the thought of the empty chair at home, though 
the old lady had long been a sufferer from acute 
pains and could hardly be wished back from her 
new Home, and they were longing to see hus- 
band and father. But at Port Said, which they 
reached on the evening of July 3, they found 
telegraphic news of such an appalling calamity 
which had befallen their country, that they forgot 


298 The Boyhood of John Kent, 

their private griefs in the rush of patriotic emo^ 
tion and the great sorrow which they bore in 
common with their nation. Six thousand miles 
from America, they were within the mournful 
shadow of the crape-bordered Stars and Stripes. 


CHAPTER XXL 


A DANGEROUS FISHERMAN. 

TN the low-browed junk shop owned and man- 
aged by Adolf Jagger — as a small and 
weather-beaten sign above the broadly open 
entrance indicated — there was, one hot even- 
ing in June (while the Zanzibar was plowing 
her way steadily northward through the waters 
of the Indian Ocean), a lively discussion in pro- 
gress. The proprietor of the establishment was 
seated on a heap of rusty iron chains, and talk- 
ing in guarded tones, while his companion, evi- 
dently excited, if not exhilarated, by recent pota- 
tions, spoke so loudly and angrily that two or 
three red-faced, barefooted urchins paused at the 
door of the shop and listened, not to the words, 
which they could not understand, but to the 
tones, which betokened something unusual in 
the colloquy of the two men. 

Jagger left his seat and made a threatening 
gesture toward the lookers-on, whereat they scat- 
tered and then closed in again, drawn by the 


300 The Boyhood of John Kent, 

fascination always exerted on a crowd by an 
angry man or dog. 

“Talk softly, Hurlburt,” growled the junk- 
dealer uneasily, resuming his former seat, “ or 
this interview’s done.” 

“ Interview .? ” sneered the other with a tipsy 
leer. “ What big words we do use, eh } I tell 
you, Jagger, if you think that just ’cause you’ve 
been to college, and can tell a good piece of 
crockery from a bad ” — 

He got no further, for the man jumped at him 
like an ape, clutching his thick neck with his long 
fingers, and shaking him till his hat fell off and 
he gasped for breath. 

“Hush-sh-sh! I tell you,” hissed the furious 
shopkeeper. “ Don’t you see those four pairs 
of ears at the door } I tell you, I won’t have it ! 
Mind, now ! ” 

He relaxed his hold, and withdrawing his 
hands from the man’s throat, stood erect, glaring 
toward the street. 

The number of spectators had immediately 
doubled on witnessing the assault just described. 
The air was sultry, and sidewalk, building, and 
contents were hot. Jagger hated to close his shop, 
but he apparently considered such action neces- 


A Dangerous Fisherman. 


301 


sary, with his friend in his present condition, 
for he advanced once more to the front, and with 
a scowl slammed the door in the faces of the 
sidewalk committee. 

The rear portion of the shop was encumbered 
by piles of rubbish, old ropes, chairs, scraps of 
iron, and junk of all kinds and sorts. There was 
so much of this stock in trade that it culminated 
in a huge heap, seemingly composed of a mixture 
of all the materials on hand, and reaching from 
floor to ceiling. 

Jagger now grumblingly lighted a candle, and 
feeling round a bit with his hand, among a lot of 
old rags that projected from this mound, gave a 
slight push. Thereupon a section of its surface 
yielded inward and disclosed an opening large 
enough to allow a man to pass in. The rags and 
rope’s ends were so cunningly arranged on and 
around the door that no outsider would have 
mistrusted its presence, or that of the inner 
chamber, which formed the hollow core of the 
mound. 

Stooping, and carefully shielding the flame of 
the candle with his hand, the owner and contriver 
of this curious hiding place crept in, followed by 
Hurlburt, who closed the door behind them. 


302 The Boyhood of John Kent, 

The little room was hot as an oven, though a 
small shuttered aperture in the wall, opening upon 
the space between that and Wilson’s carpenter 
shop, admitted a slender modicum of fresh air. 

“Now,” said Hurlburt doggedly, “let me see 
those beauties.” 

Jagger hesitated a moment ; then apparently 
concluding it was best to humor the big saloon- 
keeper, touched a spring, which opened one of 
the cupboard doors seen by John’s wondering 
eyes a year before. The upper shelf had been 
removed, to make room for the two splendid 
pieces of costly ware that nearly filled the niche, 
standing fourteen inches high, from base to lip. 

The sides were of pure lemon yellow, with 
curious markings and a fine miniature landscape 
on each. Elaborate side-pieces flanked each vase, 
in leafage design. 

“ What d’ yer say was the name of ’em } ” in- 
quired Hurlburt taking down one of them and 
turning it over carelessly. 

“ Let me have it — you ’ll smash it, sure ! ” ex- 
claimed the other. “ I won’t tell you a word 
about it till I get it in my own hands. There ! ” 
fondling it like a living thing, and dusting it 
affectionately with his handkerchief, “ is n’t it a 


A Dangerous Fisherman. 303 

darling? I really hate to part with these twins, 
I do ! ’* 

“You ain’t told me the name yet,” persisted 
Hurlburt with a drunken man’s grave pertinacity. 

“ It ’s Royal Worcester — there ’s the name on 
the bottom — see ? ” 

“ What ’ll they bring ? ” 

Jagger looked over his shoulder, and lowered 
his voice. 

“ One thousand in the market, besides the 
special value the owner may put upon ’em. It ’s 
about time to advertise the pair,” he added with 
a sigh. 

“ Don’t you forget to give me my share,” 
remarked Hurlburt. • 

“ Hurlburt, you are drunk. Did I ever cheat 
you out of a cent ? And you have n’t half kept 
your own promises.” 

“ What d’ yer mean ? ” 

“ Where ’s Tom Wilson that was going to chip 
in with our crowd ? We ’ve lost a dozen good 
chances for want of a man that ’s handy with 
tools, and here ’s a month of hot weather gone 
already.” 

Hurlburt rose unsteadily to his feet. 

“I’ll get him!” he said with an oath. “He 


304 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

slipped off the hook once, but I '11 get him next 
time.” 

*‘What you got for bait?” inquired Jagger, 
humoring his metaphor, and relieved to see in- 
dications of his leaving. 

“No bait at all, curse him ! I 've tried a hook 
long enough. Now I '11 net him — ^ scare him in.” 

“ How?” 

“ I can bring a dozen witnesses to swear they 
saw him knock that John Kent down, then saw the 
boy dead on the sidewalk. Some of ’em chased 
a sailor that ran off with the body and dumped it 
in the harbor. ‘Now, Tom Wilson, my old mess- 
mate,’ says I, the next time I see him, ‘ you ’ve 
got to do just ’s I say. For if you don’t, you go 
before the Grand Jury for manslaughter ! ’ ” 

And with a thick laugh and another huge oath, 
the gentlemanly manager of the “ Open Hand 
Supply Company ” left the junk shop and swag- 
gered off down the street. 


/ 


CHAPTER XXII. 


WINTER. 

TEVER had winter been longer or drearier 
^ in the Wilson family than that which suc- 
ceeded John’s disappearance. That all the mem- 
bers of the household endeavored to conceal 
their own low spirits, and raise those of the 
rest, but intensified and emphasized that j^ense 
of loss which was constantly felt. After John’s 
first letter, and one more, written just before he 
left Santiago, there had been a long gap in his 
correspondence, by reason of the stormy and 
protracted passage of the North Star. Then 
came the news of Mrs. Yarbrough’s illness at 
Cape Town and the consequent delay. 

Gilbert might have added to his fund of infor- 
mation concerning the absentees by hunting up 
Mr. Yarbrough. But a sensitive pride, over- 
strained, perhaps, kept him from taking a step 
which would seem like a forcing of acquaintance 
upon the rich banker, with a possible view to 
patronage. He, therefore, knew nothing of the 


305 


3o6 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

lawsuit concerning the house in which he lived, 
until he read John’s meager accounts, evidently 
written with no very clear understanding of the 
merits of the case. The thought of moving 
hardly troubled him, for his shop and his library 
were his world — his material dwelling-place — 
and it mattered little to him what was his en- 
vironment without. 

As autumn grew into winter, and the old elm- 
tree cast away its leaves for a more glorious 
inheritance to come, the carpenter retired earlier 
to his room, and there, drawing his armchair up 
before the embers that flushed and paled with 
every breath of the north wind beating upon the 
gray roof, and moaning around the eaves and 
gables, he would spend the long evening hours 
in lofty company, forgetting all that was lowly 
and commonplace in his life, and lost in the 
Elysium of an existence that knew neither past, 
present, nor future. 

Had he been a man of sterner fiber, of more 
intense and nervous moral energy, he would 
hardly have sought respite from his cares in 
just this way, which, though administering a re- 
fined and high pleasure to the better part of his 
nature, did not awaken nor refresh his best self. 


Winter. 


307 


That, for its nourishment and growth, demands 
not a couch, but a field of action. It mattered 
much, to be sure, that Gilbert Kent’s couch 
was not of rose petals, but honest embrowned 
leaves of classic folio and quarto ; still it was 
a bed, and a selfish one. 

For at the other end of the house, removed 
from his fireside by only a few steps across the 
intervening and unfurnished room, were his 
brothers and sisters in sore need of his love. 
That the fruit he had carried off and was de- 
vouring in his solitary corner was distasteful to 
the rest did not relieve him of responsibility : his 
business, as it is every man’s business, was to find 
the cup of cold water which should be grateful 
to the little ones about him, and so ministering, 
to follow in the footsteps of his Master, who 
sought not to please himself, but those to whom 
the Father had sent him. There was much, 
too, on Gilbert’s bookshelves that would have 
delighted the depressed little circle so near him, 
had it occurred to him to share it with them. In 
justice to him, I will say that it did not. 

In his son, up to this time in his life, I 
believe that this fault, or this lack of a virtue, in 
his dreamy and self-centered father, was being 


3o8 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

steadily replaced by a growing love for his kind, 
which found its purest and keenest joy in “ doing 
for” others, to use the homely New England 
phrase. In John, this emotion did not expend 
itself utterly in honest indignation at wrong and 
valiant rescue of suffering lady or beaten dog, 
but constantly grew and expressed itself in daily 
service for those about him, realizing, uncon- 
sciously, George Herbert’s lines: — 

All worldly joys go less, 

To the one joy of doing kindnesses. 

The beauty and glory of the religion of Christ 
is that it is air which all may breathe ; its paths of 
pleasantness are for little feet as well as for the 
tramp of greaved and helmeted knight. In these 
gray days of heart-sickness and deferred hope, 
Mr. Pettingill was of the elect who are chosen 
to do their Master’s service ; most simply and 
as a little child did he fulfill his trust, while the 
nobler intellect slumbered in self-seeking. 

Every afternoon, as soon as work at the factory 
was over, did that young man hastily doff the 
grimy garments in which he had been toiling 
since morning, and buttoning a threadbare coat 
around his neck, hurry to the ferry and up the 


Winter. 


309 


steep streets toward home, with such speed that 
he was usually quite out of breath and more or 
less shaky about the knees when he arrived. 

“ How ’s Dorrie ? ” was his first question, and, 
“ Can I go up } ” the second. 

From that moment until the lights were out — 
with the exception of a few minutes at the table 
downstairs, when he devoured, indiscriminately, 
the food and drink set before him, whatever its 
character or temperature — he devoted himself to 
amusing, entertaining, diverting in any way the 
little maiden. She, on her part, saw through his 
devices, and would have wearied of his trans- 
parent and simple efforts on her behalf ; these, 
however, in reality attained their end, by causing 
her to forget herself in her own desire to show 
him her appreciation of his devotion. 

There was one topic, moreover, upon which 
these two, the childlike man and the womanly 
child, were never tired of hearing each other 
talk, and that was the Life and Letters, so to 
speak, of John Kent. 

Mr. Pettingill had the most extravagant ideas as 
to the boy’s probable growth in physical stature 
since his departure. 

I should n’t wonder now,” he would say, if 


310 The Boyhood of John Kent, 

John was most six feet tall by this time, and 
handsome, Miss Dorrie, and ” — then something 
in her face, whose gentle alphabet he was fast 
learning, bade him stop, while she turned among 
her pillows and began fumbling in a small writing- 
desk which Gilbert had made for her. 

“ What do you want. Miss Dorrie ? ” 

“ His last letter. I ’ve found it. Oh, here it 
is ! ” as she ran rapidly over one page after 
another. 

She did not show him, after all, what she had 
been looking for. It was this sentence : You ’d 
laugh, Dorrie, to see how tall Edith has grown 
(she has me call her ‘ Edith ’ now, you know), 
since I first saw her. She ’s nearly up to me. 
We measured this morning.” 

“ Have a game of checkers ” Waldo would 
inquire anxiously, seeing that something was 
amiss, and offering this mild prescription as a 
sort of mental aconite. 

Then Dorrie would give him a patient smile 
and, apparently, immerse herself in the game, 
all the time seeing John so far, far away with 
the tall, beautiful girl, strong and healthy, at his 
side. 

Mr. Pettingill, meanwhile, threw himself heart 


Winter. 


311 

and soul genuinely into the moves before him, 
puckering up his lips, shrewdly avoiding traps 
set for him by his wary little opponent, and fol- 
lowing the fortunes of each discoid “man” until 
he could lean back with a sigh of relief and the 
request, in which he vainly strove , to conceal his 
exultation, “ Crown him, Miss Dorrie, please ! ” 

So, Waldo Pettingill, when thou, with thy long 
and ungainly person, expressionless face, and out- 
grown coat, shiny with much wear, shalt have 
made thy last move along thy level plain of life, 
shalt thou enter the king-row and receive thy 
crown ! 

“It's your turn. Miss Dorrie,” continues Mr. 
Pettingill, settling himself to meet the new 
responsibilities devolving upon royalty. 

Dorrie at last had to bend her energies upon 
the game, not, indeed, to win, but to keep from 
winning. It was almost impossible not to beat 
Mr. Pettingill; but by severe application she 
managed it once or twice of an evening. 

In more ways than one it was a hard winter, a 
fearfully hard winter, for Thomas Wilson. With 
Gilbert at his side and plenty of work at the 
shop, he successfully kept his enemy at bay. 
But the strain told upon him. A builder may 


312 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

cling to the dizzy heights of a church spire, fol- 
lowing his calling year after year, until such posts 
of danger are to him as child’s play ; but let him 
slip once, hanging for a moment between heaven 
and earth, and saved by a hair’s-breadth, and the 
next day’s work aloft will be a different matter. 

Wilson was thankful that Hurlburt did not 
appear. He had seen him once or twice at a 
distance, but had succeeded in avoiding a meet- 
ing. In each case Whelp, going before the man 
as pilot fish are said to precede their ugly master, 
gave timely warning of his approach. 

Worn with the day’s toil and the never absent 
sense of danger — though he knew nothing of 
the haunt of the thieves in his neighbor’s prem- 
ises — Thomas would return to his house at night, 
not with the fleet steps of Mr. Pettingill, but as 
slowly and heavily as an old man. There was no 
Dorrie to meet him now, and he missed the little 
one-footed patter across the kitchen floor more 
than he could tell. At times he had a great 
longing for his old home in Maine ; the pink 
flush of apple blossoms, the soft, shadow-flecked 
grass in the orchard, the breath and dream-songs 
of the pines, the fitful tinkle of cow bells at 
dusk, the clear whistle of whip-poor-wills as they 


Winter. 


313 


called and answered from thicket and stone — 
these memories would come before him vividly 
as he thought of the old farm, the battlefield 
where he had won his first great victory. He 
began to talk with Martha about leaving the city 
in the spring ; but she would point up to Dorrie’s 
room and shake her head, even as the low, patient 
laugh of the child would ring out feebly, over 
some irresistible blunder of Mr. Pettingill’s. 

I have not yet spoken of the sweet spirit 
that cheered them all, and kept their faces from 
deepest clouds, in these dark days. That Lady 
Courtley was in the house was always, of itself, a 
joy to Dorrie, though she were invisible at the 
time. There was that about the lady that made 
life, to all who knew her, a higher and nobler thing. 
She could hardly enter a room, it seemed, without 
making her presence felt, to its utmost recess, as 
if by a subtle emanation of ladyhood. No, I will 
not join those who decry the term ‘‘Lady” and 
would substitute “ Woman.” The latter, in that 
it stands for the noble deeds of her gentle sex, is 
a grand term, but “ Lady ” is grander — the “ loaf- 
giver,” in its Anglo-Saxon parentage — truly, as 
in this lady’s case, the giver of the bread of life, 
so far as she received it from the hands of her 
Lord. 


314 


The Boyhood of John Kent. 


During the day, while the men were away, she 
spent as much time as possible in Dorrie’s room, 
sometimes sitting there silently for hours ; some- 
times interesting her with tales of her own child- 
hood ; best of all, talking to her about John. 

It may seem strange, perhaps, that the child did 
not talk more about her soul, earnest little Chris- 
tian that she was. But Dorothy’s hold of life 
was strong, and her clear vision refused to 
distinguish the present from the hereafter, as 
different experiences to be undergone. She was 
perfectly confident that she loved God, and her 
neighbor as herself ; and that God loved her. 
She felt that she had naughty thoughts some- 
times, but, as she invariably repented soon after, 
she was sure that she was forgiven, and that Jesus^ 
who once died, and now was living, to save her 
from sin, would take good care of her soul, if she 
would let him ; which she did, utterly. She no 
more thought of doubting her future home-taking 
to the Father of Lights than she would have 
questioned her own father, whether he would 
allow her to remain in the old house. To her it 
was all “ kingdom of heaven,” and she would have 
thought IF ill-becoming in a daughter to complain 
of the one room in the palace where she now 


Winter. 


315 


was, or to ask for another until it should be 
offered to her, as she had not the slightest doubt 
it ultimately would. 

They had a quiet, not altogether sad Thanks- 
giving day, in which Martha did her best to repro- 
duce (in reduced form, like the reprints from for- 
eign illustrations in our cheaper magazines) the old- 
fashioned dinner, with its turkey, chicken-pie, and 
all their savory adjuncts. Dorrie was brought 
down in her chair by Mr. Pettingill, who earnestly 
requested that office, and became, in consequence 
of his exertions, so warm and trembly that he had 
to omit chicken-pie altogether. 

Four weeks later, on Christmas day, she was 
too “ tired ” to be moved, and the family were 
fain to satisfy themselves by sampling the various 
dishes on the table and carrying them up to her 
in microscopic quantities. 

They had a bit of Christmas holly and ever- 
green about the rooms to cheer each other up, and 
Mr. Kent came out of his self-absorption long 
enough to tell them a right good Christmas story 
in the afternoon ; the day being, as you will find 
by reference to your diaries, clear and cold, with 
just enough snow on the ground to give Boston 
a holiday aspect. Mrs. Roberts joined them at 


3i6 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

supper, and was provided with a chair with rounds 
in front ; it being a peculiarity of Terry’s, utterly 
unaccounted for to this day, that no sooner did 
that estimable landlady enter a room where his 
dogship lay than he immediately rose and began 
to worry her feet, thereby causing her untold 
mental anguish (Mr. Pettingill being present, she 
was unable to protect herself) and driving her to 
chairs with elevated rounds, as I have said. 

I cannot dismiss this account of Christmas day 
without reference to the present which Mr. Pet- 
tingill purchased for Dorrie. This was a book 
with bright blue covers, devoted to a description 
of India, and containing lifelike plates of Bengal 
tigers in every possible attitude and bloodthirsty 
occupation. Upon these illustrations Mr. Pet- 
tingill dwelt with such peculiar relish that Dorrie 
shuddered ; an effect which appeared to give him 
infinite pleasure. 

January, February, March, and affairs in the 
gray-roofed relic of ancient days changed but 
little. Dorrie was alternately better and worse, 
her life glowing and paling like the embers on 
Gilbert Kent’s hearth ; but the outer line of gray 
always gaining inward. 

In the latter part of April a letter came from 
John, saying that he hoped to reach home early 


Winter, 


317 


in June. Dorrie rallied wonderfully at this, and 
astonished her friends by her rapid gain for a 
few weeks. Mr. Pettingill was so much encour- 
aged that he dug over and replanted the flower- 
garden and arranged in her window an elaborate 
hanging carrot, which was to grow upside down. 

May passed, and the first warm, languid days 
of June swiftly succeeded one another, only to 
bring another letter from across the seas, saying 
that John’s coming must be postponed for a 
while longer; and Dorrie drooped as rapidly as 
she had gained strength. In the garden the 
weeds soon grew high and rank ; Mr. Pettingill 
had no heart to raise flowers for — he would not 
allow himself to think what. 

When he was banished from the sick-chamber, 
he would go up into the cupola with Terry, and 
talk to him as to a brother, the dog turning his 
head very much on one side, in his efforts to 
comprehend, and occasionally reaching up to lap 
the tearful face above him in sheer sympathy for 
the sorrow which he dimly recognized in Waldo’s 
tones. 

Thomas Wilson came and went, the shadow of 
his temptation and fall always over him ; remorse 
crying out upon him day and night, ‘‘You drove 
him into exile ; you have killed her ! ” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


JULY SECOND. 


N the morning of July second, Gilbert Kent 



went to his work as usual. An errand to 
a Dock Square hardware store took him up toward 
the newspaper offices at about ten o’clock. As 
he approached the corner of Cornhill and Wash- 
ington Street he noticed people hurrying uptown, 
with pale, anxious faces, as if the scene of some 
terrible calamity were before them. Swept by an 
unexplained impulse, he turned aside and followed 
in their footsteps. There was no loud talk ; even 
the noise of vehicles in the street seemed under 
a strange spell of silence. 

Suddenly the shrill voice of a newsboy tore 
through the hush : — 

“ Herald Extra ! eleven o’clock ! Assassination 
OF President Garfield ! ” 

Gilbert’s blood surged hotly through his veins 
and back to the heart. His ears rang as if they 
were beaten upon like anvils. Dazed, not know- 


sis 


July Second. 319 

ing what he did or whither he went, he drifted 
onward with the crowd. 

Washington Street was wedged full of people 
in front of the newspaper offices, reading the 
bulletins and talking in low, anxious tones. 
Friends hardly recognized each other’s changed, 
hoarse voices. But nobody waited to find a 
friend. Each man spoke to those nearest him ; 
all were brothers, clinging together in their 
common grief. 

“ President Garfield Shot and Fatally 
Wounded this Morning ! 

Arrest of" the Assassin ! ” 

Those were the first words, in great purple 
letters, that Gilbert read on the bulletin. 

He waited for no more, but made his way out 
of the crowd and hurried back to tell his partner 
the terrible news. Wilson was visibly affected, 
but the blow did not fall upon him as it had 
upon Kent, who was roused from his dreamy, 
sluggish mood, and down whose cheeks the tears 
rolled as he stood with clenched fists telling 
Thomas all he knew about the affair and smooth- 
ing with trembling hands the crumpled newspaper 
he had bought as he left the crowd. 


320 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

He could not work, but hurried back to get 
fresh news. There was little to be learned, save 
that the assassin’s name was “ Kitto,” afterward 
reported “Gitto,” and at last correctly spelled 
out Charles J. Guiteau,” a half-crazy office-seeker, 
disappointed at the result of the recent election 
and his own failure to obtain preferment. 

At three o’clock word came that the President 
was indeed dangerously hurt but would recover. 
Men wept like children, for the second time on 
that memorable day, — this time for joy. 

At eight o’clock dispatches arrived from Wash- 
ington announcing that the President was dead. 

Leaving the pale, awe-struck throng still dense 
about the news offices, Gilbert Kent, faint for loss 
of food and thoroughly unmanned by the after- 
noon’s rapid transition from joy to grief, returned 
to his home. 

They had not meant to tell Dorrie, but her 
quick perceptions divined that something was 
wrong and the news came out. Her eyes grew 
large and dark with excitement. She slept but 
little and in the morning was decidedly worse. 

“Garfield is alive and better!” were the first 
words Gilbert heard as he awoke in the gray 
dawn of Sunday. He dressed hastily and went 


July Second. 321 

out into the streets. “Thank God ! thank God ! ” 
was on everybody’s lips. 

All over the land that day preachers stood in 
their pulpits with uplifted hands and trembling 
lips, beseeching the God of nations to spare the 
life of this man to his people ; and ever at the 
close of the agonized prayer came the broken 
“ Thy will be done.” 

Toward night the bulletins from the physicians 
in attendance at the capital were less encouraging 
in tone ; with beating hearts the people turned 
again to a few hours of fitful slumber to hurry 
once more to the large centers of information. 

It was Independence day, the Fourth of July; 
but no gun boomed or bell sent out its joyous 
peal. Groups of men, released from their daily 
routine of work by the holiday, gathered upon 
the street corners and discussed the darkening 
prospect. The worst fears were entertained for 
the immediate future of the Republic. The dis- 
contented partisans and politicians, who were still 
burning with the mortification of defeat in No- 
vember, would stir up the disaffected elements 
throughout the States, fomenting open rebellion, 
and jarring asunder those harmonious relatfons 
which had been growing between the north and 
south. 


322 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

With the Vice-President a new set of men 
would come into power, hostile to the peaceful 
and statesmanlike views of the dying President. 
Sedition and discord would shortly be fanned into 
flame by this scorching blast of excitement. The 
“dogs of war” were already tugging at their 
chains. Such were the common expressions on 
the street all through that awful, dumb Independ- 
ence day of 1 88 1. 

Still came the alternating messages of hope 
and despair. Horse cars and vehicles of all sorts 
gave up any attempt to pass through the lower 
portion of Washington Street. Side by side with 
ragged urchins and shriveled, unkempt women 
stood gray-haired gentlemen in broadcloth, and 
waited upon the curbing or pavement for hours, 
while a sultry July sun poured down its rays 
upon them. The mighty presses of the Herald 
tore twenty-five tons of white paper into sheets 
in that single day ; printed the news from Wash- 
ington on them and scattered them broadcast over 
the land. 

The streets resounded with the cries of news- 
boys : “ Herald, extra ! half-past nine o’clock ! ” 
Then a silence would fall on the crowd, followed 
by the shout, “ Herald, extra ! half-past eleven ! ” 


July Second. 


323 


and so on, one enormous edition after another, 
fluttering for a moment here and there in the 
throng and disappearing like snowflakes in the 
sea. 

And now a bare-headed man emerges from the 
Globe office and fastens up a new bulletin. 

“Latest Reports Favorable. He has Asked 
FOR Something to Eat.” 

There is another silence, breathless and oppress- 
ive, while the eager crowd surges up, packing 
the street from side to side. 

The bulletin is read. Some one in the street 
claps his hands and everybody claps. Somebody 
else cries aloud with a quiver in his voice, “ Hoo- 
ray ! ” and a grand, human, warm-hearted cheer 
goes up to heaven, such as those brick walls 
have never echoed, though they often have rung 
with savagely exultant cries of the same crowds 
on election nights, shouting hoarsely their party 
triumphs. 

The papers cannot give all their telegraphic 
space to reports from Washington. From every 
quarter of the globe come dispatches to the 
stricken people that wait at - the door of the 
chamber. Spain, Roumania, France, England, 


324 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

Japan, Italy, Canada, and hosts of other great 
peoples are with one voice crying out against 
this black crime and sending their generous 
sympathy. 

To Mrs. Garfield: — 

Keep a good heart. God bless you. We are praying for 
you. The Ladies of Richmond. 

An ex-confederate soldier, blind and wounded, sends his 
sympathy and prayers for the President’s recovery. 

Aye, it is the “solid south,” chivalrous and 
true-hearted to the core, joining hands with the 
north ! 

Windsor Castle. 

The Queen is most anxious to learn as to the state of the 
President. Please wire the latest news. 

Back and forth, beneath the waves of the ocean, 
speeds the lightning, the flaming fire which, in 
the hour of dread and trial. He has made his 
minister. 

The continued excitement was bad for Dorrie. 
The family tried their best to exclude the Presi- 
dent’s condition, as a topic, from all conversation 

within the child’s hearing. But it was of no use. 

% 

It was in the very atmosphere, in the looks of 
those about her, in the chance words let fall by 


July Second. 


325 


the letter carrier on his rounds, in great flaring 
type at the head of every newspaper, one of 
which would occasionally stray into the house in 
the pockets of Mr. Pettingill’s linen duster. And 
as the strength of the stricken man at Washing- 
t Jii fluctuated so did that of this frail creature, 
restlessly turning from pillow to pillow in her 
armchair. 

An adverse report from the board of physicians 
at the capital would give Dorrie a sleepless night ; 
a rise in the temperature or a quickening of the 
pulse in the stalwart figure, which the whole 
civilized world was watching with constrained 
breath, called the feverish flush to the thin cheek 
of the crippled girl in the forsaken house, and 
left still weaker the little figure known to only 
the few who came and went each day across this 
forgotten and desolate inner-chamber in the great 
city. 

The heat grew more and more oppressive. 
Rising from the baked, clayey soil around the 
old house, the vibrant waves of torrid atmosphere 
set all the dingy brick and granite walls about it 
a-quivering. Ill odors crept up from the wretched 
dwellings of the poor, not far away, and the narrow 
streets, where uncleanness and disease made their 


326 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

noisome bed. Even the harbor sent no breath of 
coolness to the sick child, but lay leaden and 
gleaming under the blazing sun. 

The leaves of the elm drooped, choked with 
dust that no refreshing rain would bathe away. 
Sounds of brawls and of wailing, suffering babies, 
and drunken oaths filled the air at nightfall — 
while around the old Maine farmhouse the 
thrushes were singing. 

Still the President’s pulse grew quicker and his 
strength waned. Still the pure stream of life, 
clear as crystal, ebbed away from the upper 
chamber in the forgotten house. 

One afternoon late in July, Dorrie was sitting 
at her open window, her thin hands clasped loosely 
together, her eyes gazing out over the sea as was 
their wont. From afar, on every side, came a 
faint, dull roar. 

“ What is it. Lady ? ” asked Dorothy, rousing 
herself a little, and half turning to her faithful 
old friend who sat near by. 

“ What, dear, the noise ? It ’s just the city 
'Streets, you know — the wheels and the horses.” 

“ I must have been dreaming. I thought it 
was the ocean. Have you ever seen the waves 
on the shore. Lady } ” 


July Second. 


327 


“Often, dear; often — years ago.” 

“And the ocean stretching away, away off } ” 

“Yes, Dorrie.” 

“So far that you couldn’t see any other side 
at all .? ” 

“ Only water and sky and ships.” 

“ Oh,” clasping her hands together again 
nervously, “ if I could only sail off in a great ship 
like John — perhaps I could find him. Do you 
think I could find him. Lady ? Don’t you think 
I could > ” 

“ Perhaps, dear.” 

“ And when I ’m better — I felt ever so much 
better this morning — can’t I go ? Can’t you all 
go, and find him ? Oh, he ’ll never come if you 
don’t ! ” 

Word had got into the house somehow that 
morning that Garfield was sinking rapidly ; as a 
result Dorrie’s own condition had been more 
alarming than at any time before. 

Mrs. Courtley now came close to her side, see- 
ing that she was becoming nervously excited, and 
began one of her soothing, gentle songs, which no 
one ever heard from her but Dorrie. 

For a while the child yielded to its influence, 
and closed her eyes, leaning back in her chair 


328 The Boyhood of Joht Kent. 

and breathing feebly. But soon she became rest- 
less again, strangely restless, turning uneasily 
upon her pillows. 

The afternoon had been intensely hot, but now 
as the sun went down, the white curtain fluttered 
softly inward, and a cool breath touched Dorrie*s 
cheek. 

She opened her eyes wide, and stretched out 
both arms toward the window. 

. “ The wave-wind ! The wave-wind ! ” she whis- 
pered in ecstasy. “ I could n’t sail away into 
it, so it has come to me ! ” 

As the words were on her lips the door of 
the room below opened and shut. A strangely 
familiar footstep sounded on the floor — came 
swiftly up the stairs. 

With hand still outstretched, Dorrie turned, 
trembled, with lips apart, then sprang from her 
chair, and on her one thin, bare foot, her little 
white robe fluttering about her, would have 
reached the door, had not a pair of strong young 
arms caught her and a brown, loving face bent 
over her before she had advanced one step. 

“ Dorrie ! Dorrie ! I ’ve come back ! ” 

But Dorrie did not answer. 





CHAPTER XXIV. 


THE NEW DOCTOR. 


T first there was not one in the house who 



^ ^ did not believe that Dorrie’s longing had 
been granted, and that she had sailed away on 
the great, tireless ocean of life on whose borders 
we live, and to whose call she had so many times 
listened that long, weary summer. John, a tall 
bronzed fellow, now almost fourteen, laid the little 
form back tenderly among the pillows from which 
she had sprung, and covering his face with his 
arm, ^tumbled slowly down over the stairs. 

Martha, whom he had seen when he entered, 
had followed him quickly up, and now joined her 
efforts to Lady Courtley’s to renew the flickering 
flame of consciousness, if, indeed, it had not gone 
out forever. 

As soon as John reached the ground floor his 
presence of mind returned. Flinging on his cap, 
he dashed off through the alley and along the 
well-known streets across Scollay Square, and up 
to the Tremont House, never stopping till he had 


330 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

delivered a series of emphatic knocks at the door 
of a room in the second story. 

“ Come in ! ” called a strong, cheery voice. 
“ Why, John, back again so soon } Nothing 
happened, I hope } ” catching the look on his 
face. ‘‘All well at home.?” 

‘‘Come!” gasped John breathlessly, catching 
up his companion’s hat which lay on the table, 
and forcing it into his hand. “ Oh, do hurry. Doc- 
tor McAllister I Dorrie ’s so sick ! I don’t know 
but she ’s — she ’s ” — 

He could not finish the sentence, but broke 
down with a bitter cry, and hid his face on his 
friend’s shoulder, sobbing and weeping as he had 
not wept for years, aye, as he had never wept 
before. But only for a brief moment or t\^. 

Harold, who had reached the hotel but an hour 
before from the New York train (they had come 
by that route from Liverpool to save time), was 
out in the street with him, and hastening to the 
rescue with John at his side, before the boy’s 
tears had dried on his cheek. 

Doctor McAllister went up the stairs alone to 
Dorrie’s room, without even an introduction to 
Martha, or any one else in the house. The forms 
and ceremonies of daily life seem the veriest doll’s 


The New Doctor. 


331 


trappings in moments like these. A word of ex- 
planation to the women sufficed, and the practised 
hand of the young physician was at work with 
theirs. 

While John waited in the kitchen Terry came 
in, and shortly afterward Mr. Pettingill. The 
former accepted the wanderer’s return with that 
matter-of-fact mien with which the most sagacious 
and affectionate of dogs comport themselves on 
such occasions. Waldo, on the contrary, fully 
made up for any lack of enthusiasm on the part 
of the terrier, by his wild, though silent, demon- 
strations of joy over his friend. 

After the first greeting, John explained Dorrie’s 
condition and Doctor McAllister’s presence in 
the house, while Mr. Pettingill poured into his 
ears the story of her long illness. 

“ I don’t dare to tell her a word about the Presi- 
dent,” he concluded, “for just as sure as he ’s took 
worse, she ’s worse.” 

After a long half-hour of anxious waiting, 
Harold came down. He told John and Mr. 
Pettingill, to whom he was duly presented, that 
Dorrie was conscious, though very feeble, and 
that it would not do for her to see him again 
that night. He, McAllister, would come again 


332 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

in the morning, thus virtually taking charge of the 
case, to John’s great relief. 

At the meeting of John with his father we will 
not be present ; it was too sacred a scene for any 
one but God to look upon ; nor with Thomas Wil- 
son; for it was too full of painful memories for 
me to wish to record its details in these pages. 

After supper all but Martha, who was with her 
daughter, remained in the old kitchen, talking 
eagerly, though quietly, of the experiences of 
the past year. 

Late at night, before the group broke up, Gil- 
bert Kent opened the big family Bible which the 
Wilson’s had brought from Maine, and read aloud 
the One Hundred and Third Psalm. 

That night John climbed the stairs to the old 
chamber under the garret eaves, and as he slept 
he dreamed the old dream of his boat ; only there 
was another in it now — a woman-child lying 
before him with white face and closed eyes. 

Early the next morning a firm step on the path 
outside the door announced the arrival of Harold, 
who had thrown himself into the case of the 
crippled girl with that earnestness that had won 
for him his already brilliant reputation. As yet, 
however, Dorrie was hardly more than a “ case ” 


The New Doctor. 


333 


to him ; he had not yet seen the lovely soul 
within the frail body which he now bent all his 
energies to save. 

Before going up he had a long talk with her 
parents and Lady Courtley about her sickness, 
asking for every detail they could remember since 
her injury and the operation in the hospital. 
When they reached, in their account, the events 
of the preceding summer, which John had nar- 
rated to him in full over and over again, the 
doctor interrupted Wilson’s stammering and frag- 
mentary statement with “I know, I know. She 
had a great shock, from anxiety for some one she 
loved, and John’s leaving home. Go on from 
there, ple^e.” 

When they had finished, he closed the book in 
which he had been taking full notes of dates and 
symptoms, and sat a few minutes in deep thought. 

“I cannot tell,” he said at length, “whether 
her life can be saved. The most dangerous ele- 
ment in your daughter’s illness, Mr. Wilson, I 
must say to you frankly, is the absence of any 
strongly developed disease. It is, so far as I can 
tell, a general ebbing of vitality from a consti- 
tution which barely held its own, after the origi- 
nal injury and amputation, until this new shock 


334 Boyhood of John Kent. 

gave her nerves a strain from which she could 
not rally. I understand you to say that she is 
not now under a regular course of treatment, 
your physician having gone abroad and left only 
general directions, and those in case of emer- 
gency. I am ready to do my best to save her, if 
you wish me to try.” 

Thomas motioned to the stairway and Harold 
went up. When he came down, his face was very 
grave. 

Day after day he repeated his visits without 
apparent result, save that Dorrie seemed to grow 
no worse. She liked the new doctor cordially 
and at once, which was a point gained. But the 
tragedy still dragging out its slow scenes at 
Washington wore upon her. They could no 
longer keep the official bulletins from her, for 
if she did not hear from her great companion in 
suffering, she grew excited and feverish, until the 
paper was brought. 

The news grew steadily worse. The little can- 
dle began to flicker; Doctor McAllister came 
twice instead of once a day, through the stifling 
sultry heats and fever exhalations of August. 

At last he said firmly to Mr. Wilson : — 

Sir, there is but one chance left. Miss Dorrie 


The New Doctor. 


335 

must be removed from this place and taken into 
.the country.” 

On the same day the physicians at Washington 
consulted long and reported : “The President will 
be taken to Long Branch as soon as suitable prep- 
arations can be made for his removal.” 

The President was dying; John Kent looked 
into Harold’s eyes, and dared not translate what 
he read there. 

One week from that day it was settled ; the 
Wilsons would return to the old farm among the 
Maine pines. 

Dorrie listened with a spark of reviving interest 
to the olans, then hid her face in the pillow. 

When asked tenderly why she was sorry, she 
only pointed out at the open window ; and they 
knew it was because she was leaving the ocean, 
on which she longed to sail, so far, oh ! so far 
away. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


A MEMORY. 


OUR days before that set for the departure, 



^ John called upon Edith Yarbrough. Their 
voyage home had been, on the whole, a pleasant 
one, though it had been clouded by anxiety as to 
the state in which they should find their distracted 
country on their return. 

The cordial relations between John and his 
friends had been maintained until the Cephalonia 
had rounded the southern point of Ireland and 
was fairly headed for New York. Then Edith 
began to withdraw slightly, and seek companion- 
ship among some schoolgirls who were returning 
from a tour on the continent. Although John 
missed her society, he was not particularly hurt 
by her conduct, as it never occurred to him that 
its reason could be found in the fact that the 
new friends were wealthy, and that he was a 
poor boy, in reality traveling on her mother’s 
charity. 

So he had made friends with the sailors and the 


336 


A Memory. 


337 


more intelligent steerage passengers, and had a 
pretty good time of it after all in helping others, 
in spite of Edith’s haughty airs. 

As they neared the Highlands, and the smoke 
of the great metropolis hung in swarthy folds 
against the sky, on the afternoon of their arrival, 
Edith’s friends had deserted her, and were busy 
in their staterooms with a deal of chatter over 
trunks and duties and “ wharf -parties ” to meet 
them, etc. 

When John drew near the Boston girl, standing 
rather disconsolately by the rail alone, he received 
a more cordial welcome than had fallen to his lot 
since leaving Queenstown. 

In real fact, she was genuinely glad to see him, 
and among other pleasant speeches impulsively 
asked him to be sure to come to her house as 
soon as she returned from the mountains, which 
would be about September first. 

John was sorry she was going away before 
seeing Dorrie, and told her so, whereupon her 
ladyship became frigid again, to her comrade’s 
great perplexity. She was not quite old enough 
to appear more cordial at the mention of Dorrie’s 
name. John, notwithstanding these little flitting 
shadows and sunshines across the fair young face 


333 The Boyhood of John Kent 

before him, accepted her invitation in a quite 
matter-of-fact way, as if he had expected it ; and 
would probably have gone without any invitation 
at all. 

He had worked in his father’s shop during 
August, spending at least half of each day with 
Dorrie, who was never weary of hearing him tell 
of his adventures abroad and the wonderful places 
he had visited. 

A colored man answered John’s ring at the 
Commonwealth Avenue house, opening the door 
a few inches and peering out through the crack 
at the boy. 

“ Well ^ ” said the man sharply, supposing him 
to be a messenger from a down-town store. 

“ Is Miss Edith at home } ” 

“Yes,” said the servant, holding out his hand 
for a note or parcel, which John, however, did not 
produce. 

“ I want to see her, if you please,” said he, with 
one of his rare smiles. 

“ Well, you can’t see her now. She ’s engaged.” 

“ Tell her John Kent is at the door,” said John, 
turning coolly, and gazing out at the children play- 
ing on the avenue. 

But before the man could deliver his message, 


A Memory. 


339 


or even shut the inner door, there came a swift 
rustle of skirts down from the second landing 
where somebody had evidently been listening to 
the colloquy. 

“Why, John, how glad I am you’ve come! 
Do come right in, and tell me what you ’ve been 
doing this last month. It seems ages since I ’ve 
seen you ! ” 

John was rather bewildered, though altogether 
delighted at the warm greeting. The truth was, 
Edith had been in the society of a lot of over- 
grown boys, who fancied themselves young men, 
for the last fortnight, and though they answered 
well enough to fill seats on a tallyho, or to com- 
plete a set at tennis, she found them insufferably 
dull when she was left to talk ten minutes with 
any one of them. She was afraid she had been 
too short with John, and hardly ventured to hope 
that she should see him. “ He ’ll be too bashful, 
or too’ proud,” she thought, “to come into this 
elegant house.” 

In which surmise, as you see, she was quite 
mistaken. 

Edith took him into an exquisitely furnished 
reception room, and seated him near her in a 
sumptuous armchair. 


340 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

No sooner was he ensconced among its soft 
cushions, than there came over him a strange 
sense of having been in exactly that same place 
before. 

Now he knew that he had never set foot in that 
house, and that such a previous experience was 
simply an impossibility. He tried, therefore, to 
throw off the queer feeling, and keep up with his 
lively entertainer’s questions and saucy comments. 
She was gracious enough to inquire for everybody 
at home, and her pretty face grew very sober as 
John told of Dorrie’s grave illness. 

“ Do you really expect to go away, then } ” she 
asked, looking up at him. 

Though she was a full year older than he, he 
was now considerably the taller of the two. 

“Yes, Miss Ed — Yes, Edith,” he corrected 
himself, not unwillingly, in answer to a laughing 
flash of her gray eyes. “ We ’re going next 
Tuesday, if nothing happens.” 

“Tuesday — that’s the sixth. How soon! 
Will Dr. McAllister go too } I have n’t seen a 
sign of him since we got back.” 

“Yes, he’ll go with us on the cars, so as to 
help take care of Dorrie. Nobody can lift her 
as he does. Then he ’ll come back after a day 
or two, if she’s no worse.” 


A Memory, 341 

“ I wish he ’d — What are you staring at, 
John Kent?” 

“ I did n’t mean to,” said John, flushing up. 

“ Well, what was it ? ” 

“ Why, I ’ve somehow got the feeling that I ’ve 
been in this room before. It ’s foolish, because 
I know I never was in such a beautiful place.” 

“Just come here,” said Edith, gratified. “This 
picture is a real Bougereau. Is n’t it lovely ? 
That soft brownish autumn one is Enneking’s.” 

The names were utterly strange to John. He 
could not help preferring the latter picture of the 
two, though Edith had dwelt with such impress- 
iveness on the Frenchman’s name. 

“ Here are some miniatures,” continued Edith, 
opening a little cabinet. “They are mostly family 
portraits. I don’t suppose you ’ll care much about 
them.” 

She was closing the cabinet door, when John 
darted upon one of the dainty miniatures, with a 
cry of amazement. 

“ What ’s the matter now ? ” demanded Edith, 
with more force than elegance. 

“Who is that ? ” stammered John, hardly know- 
ing what he said, in his excitement. 

“ Why, I don’t know ; some niece or second 
cousin of grandmother’s, I believe.” 


342 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

Mother,” to Mrs. Yarbrough, who was just 
entering on her husband’s arm, '^here’s John 
Kent, making great eyes at that pretty Miss — 
what ’s her name } The portrait ’s fifty years old, 
John,” she added with a laugh. 

John was formally presented to Mr. Yarbrough, 
who proved to be a most genial, unpretending 
man, with simple and cordial manners. Then the 
conversation about the miniature was resumed, 
not quite willingly on Mrs. Yarbrough’s part ; but 
John was persistent. 

“ I ’ve a special reason for asking, ma’am,” said 
he earnestly. 

“Why, that was a Miss Martyn. Her mother 
and Mr. Yarbrough’s grandmother were very dear 
friends. No; she was no relation to us, Edith — 
but they had some misunderstanding and drifted 
apart. This girl’s mother died in extreme want — 
’t was very sad — and grandmother never got over 
it. The portrait was painted at grandmother’s 
expense when Augusta, that was her name, was 
about twenty years old — just before the quarrel 
between the older folks. After Mrs. Martyn died, 
the girl went to live with some distant relative 
did n’t she, Alexander — in California, I think — 
and grandmother never heard of her from that 
day.” 


A Memory. 


343 


‘‘ Was she ever married, ma’am ? ” 

“ I always thought she must have been, and 
that ’s why we could n’t find her by her old name. 
But I don t know. Why are you so concerned 
about all this, John } ” 

“ Because,” said the boy, with dancing eyes, 
** this is the very Lady Courtley I told you about 
on the North Star. She always signs her name, 
‘Augusta M. Courtley.’ She’s an old lady now, 
but she looks just like that picture.” 

“Well, well, that’s strange enough,” said Mr. 
Yarbrough, with a jolly laugh. “We must see if 
something can’t be done for her, for grand- 
mother’s sake.” 

John shook his head doubtfully at that. 

“I think she might like the portrait, sir,” he 
said, never guessing that the miniature had cost 
at least a hundred dollars. 

“Take it to her, by all means,” put in Mr. 
Yarbrough, before his wife could say a word. 
“Grandmother would want us to do all that we 
could, I know.” 

“ Here ’s grandmother’s desk,” said Edith. “ It 
came when I was a little girl, and it was in her 
room to the very day when she died.” 

John’s head swam, as he looked at the quaint 


344 Boyhood of John Kent. 

piece of furniture, with the renewed sensation of 
repeating a former experience. 

“ Did n’t I hear you say something about look- 
ing through your grandmother’s desk for a will } ” 
he asked, slowly turning to Edith. 

“Why, yes. How funny you look ! She always 
said she had a will somewhere, and we supposed 
of course it would surely be in that desk. But 
come to look, there was n’t a sign of it.” 

John advanced toward the desk, still in a dazed 
way, while the rest regarded him curiously. 

“ May I open that third drawer } ” 

“ Certainly, my boy,” said the gentleman. 
“ There ’s nothing but a few prints in it.” 

He pulled the drawer open carefully, until a 
very small nick on one of the sides came into 
view. Then he reached in (doing all this in a 
slow, mechanical way), and made a quick motion 
of his wrist ; when lo, a small, square drawer shot 
out into the larger one, from its side. 

They leaned forward eagerly to see what would 
come next. 

A crumpled, dusty sheet of foolscap, half cov- 
ered with writing. The first words were : “ I, 
Cordelia L. Yarbrough, being of sound mind, do 
hereby make my last will and testament.” 


A Memory. 345 

A little farther down on the paper was this 
clause. 

“ 5th. I do give and bequeath to Augusta 
' Martyn, the daughter of my honored and un- 
happy friend Rachel Martyn, if she be alive at 
the time of my death, and to her heirs forever, or 
in case of her death before my own, then to her 
lawful heirs at law, in equal shares, and to their 
heirs forever, that lot of land, and the house upon 
it, which came into my possession at the conclu- 
sion of the case of Barker vs. Brooks, and con- 
cerning which my aforesaid grandson, Alexander 
Yarbrough, is fully informed.” 

“ Why,” exclaimed Edith, then your friend 
owns the very house you live in, John ! ” 

“ A pretty way to do,” said the millionaire, with 
pretended fierceness, to come and take property 
away from under my very eyes in this way. How 
did you know about that secret drawer, you young 
scamp } ” 

I ’ve just thought it out,” said John. ^‘Nearly 
five years ago, when I was in father’s shop, he was 
making this very desk, or one exactly like it. He 
said it was for an old lady on Commonwealth 
Avenue, and nobody was to know about the 
secret* drawers. I tried not to see, but I suppose 


346 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

I did, without thinking, for it came to me just 
now, like a dream. There ’s a cup like the one 
Lady Courtley gave me,” he added, pointing to a 
costly collection of bric-a-brac on the shelves of 
an ^taghe. 

“Marvels upon marvels!” cried the rich banker. 
“ Upon my soul, it ’s like a story-book. Kent, 
my boy, you must dine with us. There ’s the 
bell.” 

The will proved to be perfectly good, notwith- 
standing some pretty loudly hinted objections by 
one or two people who were indirectly interested. 
The Yarbroughs acted nobly in the matter, part- 
ing with the valuable piece of property without a 
complaint, and assisting Lady Courtley in proving 
her claim. Mr. Yarbrough at once recognized the 
name of a well-known Boston lawyer as one of the 
witnesses, and on calling at his office, found that 
the will had been duly drawn up and signed only 
a few months before. This information was given 
by the junior partner; the senior, who had full 
charge of the matter, was now abroad and had not 
heard of the death of his client. 

Lady Courtley was at once informed of the 
change in her fortunes. It proved that she had 
been married in California, and that her husband 


A Memory. 


347 


had died there, after a happy but childless home 
life of four years. She had then returned to the 
east, and had supported herself upon the small 
sum left her by her husband, and by such means 
of obtaining an honorable living, not as ample in 
those as in modern days, as were open to a gentle- 
woman. 

She called upon the Yarbroughs on the day 
following the discovery of the will, and was so 
warmly received that she was both touched and 
charmed by their magnanimity. She and Edith 
became friends at once. 

What she should do with her newly acquired 
fortune she did not know, nor did she worry about 
it, leaving all her papers for the time in Mr. Yar- 
brough’s hands. 

Her own mind, and those of her nearest friends, 
were occupied with the one incessant thought : 
Could they move Dorrie safely one hundred miles 
from Boston ; and would it be for life or death ? 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


THE YELLOW DAY. 


S early as five o’clock on the morning of 



Tuesday, September 6, the Wilsons were all 
awake and astir. John Kent and his father also 
emerged from their rooms, and assisted in the 
final preparations for leaving the old house. It 
had been decided that the premises should be left 
entirely vacant, as it was uncertain when any of 
the household would return. Thomas secretly 
resolved to remain in his native town if the least 
opening could be found there for earning an 
honest living at his trade. A little more than a 
year before he would have scorned to leave the 
city and its allurements, judging such a with- 
drawal cowardly desertion of a post of danger. 
But he had learned, of late, to pray with his whole 
heart the prayer, “ Lead us not into temptation,” 
and to recognize the fact that one of the helps 
which God gives his fighting soldiers is that of 
condition and surrounding. For a man to remain 
v/here he is needlessly exposed to the shots of the 


The Yellow Day, 


349 


enemy is not bravery, but foolhardiness. Thomas 
Wilson humbly admitted his weakness, and, know- 
ing that nowhere on earth could he wholly escape 
toil and struggle, was content to ask for a less 
distinguished post than the forefront of the 
battle. It is such men, whom, when they have 
overcome, the great Commander often places in 
the van, and gives them opportunity to regain 
their self-respect by doing glorious battle for the 
right, after all. 

Mr. Pettingill had been putting off a ten days’ 
vacation, offered him by his employers, to accom- 
pany Dorrie, who, indeed, would have sorely 
missed her faithful attendant. Lady Courtley 
would also be with the Wilsons on their journey 
north, but would soon return, if she could be 
spared, to conclude arrangements and complete 
the necessary formalities for the transfer of the 
Yarbrough property ; as well as to decide as to its 
disposition, and select a residence for herself. 

Gilbert Kent would remain in Boston, boarding 
at Mrs. Roberts’ for the present, and taking care 
of the shop and its interests. John went with 
Dorrie, as a matter of course. 

During Saturday and Monday nearly all the 
furniture in the house had been removed to its 


350 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

various destinations. Lady Courtley, availing 
herself of Mr. Yarbrough’s kind offer to advance 
five hundred dollars for her personal expenses, 
had insisted on providing for Dorrie’s transpor- 
tation to the depot as comfortable a carriage as 
could be procured in the city ; accompanying her 
herself, together with Martha and Mr. Wilson. 

Dr. McAllister was on hand by the time they 
had finished breakfast. Cool and quiet as if they 
were but to walk around the garden instead of 
taking a journey of a hundred miles, he inspired 
them all with courage, and actually made Dorrie 
laugh before he had been in the house five 

minutes. 

♦ 

She could not keep back the tears though, nor 
could Martha herself, as they all passed out of 
the door, locking it behind them, and walked 
slowly down the path towards the outside world. 

John turned for a last look at the old home. 
Already it was to him a part of a far-off past. It 
seemed no more possible ever to go back and live 
there again than to resume a dream where it was 
broken off. 

There was the cupola where he had found him- 
self alone at night; the garden he had helped 
plant and tend ; the window from which his 


The Yellow Day, 


351 


gentle playmate had so often watched for her 
chickens and for his own home-coming at close 
of day. . Even now the gulls were wheeling about 
in the sky overhead with now and then a faint, 
wild cry, as if they knew they should no more see 
the white face turned up to them ; that the old 
house would slowly mblder away, and weeds 
flaunt in the garden, and at last the whole scene 
of this once happy and serene home life would 
vanish, as a child’s sand house, before the resist- 
less tide of Time and the advance of the city’s 
iron heel. 

Oh, sweet, sad cries of the gulls ! Oh, dusty 
patient leaves, dumb and motionless in the still 
heat of the sultry day! Oh, aged, aged home, 
over whose worn threshold so many children have 
crept, prattling, to the feverish unrest of life, 
calling them dully from the far-off city streets. 
Oh, suffering, drooping child figure in the strong 
man’s arms, waving a feeble hand in farewell to 
you all 1 Oh, blessed love of the great Physician, 
who, in saddest and dreariest hours when the soul 
is sick unto death and the heart’s beating is 
muffled and the universe itself has no home for 
us, then holds us in the everlasting arms and 
bears us up lest we dash our foot against a stone. 


352 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

and leadeth us in green pastures and by still 
waters, and restoreth our souls ! 

At the street entrance Mrs. Courtley’s carriage 
was waiting, and the ladies, with Thomas, entered 
it quickly and were driven away, while the rest of 
the party with Terry hurried on foot to meet 
them at the depot. 

So absorbed had they been in the preparations 
for leaving, that no one thus far had noticed a 
singular effect in the atmosphere. It was John 
who first called* attention to it. 

“Father,” he said, “what makes it so dark.? 
Do you suppose we ’re going to have a storm .? ” 

“ It looks like it, my son. I heartily hope it 
won’t strike you at the end of your journey.” 

“ I ’ve been noticing the sky,” observed Harold, 
striding along so fast that the others could hardly 
keep up with him, Mr. Pettingill, in particular, 
being entirely debarred from taking part in the 
conversation by the hurried pace ; “ there ’s some 
thing strange about it.” 

“Yaller!” Waldo managed to ejaculate, as they 
slackened their speed a moment at a street 
crossing. 

The air was oppressive in the extreme, hot, 
close, and sticky. Little by little a yellowish hue 


The Yellow Day. 


353 


overspread the sky and hung like a noisome mist 
over every object. Already men were beginning 
to light the gas in their offices, the flame showing 
a dazzling white in the midst of the prevailing 
murky tint. 

People in the streets glanced at the clouds, 
wiped their foreheads, and hurried on to their 
destinations with disturbed and anxious faces. 
Some predicted a tornado, some an earthquake. 
A few believed the day of judgment was at hand ; 
while some regarded the yellow sky with super- 
stitious dread, reminding one another in awe- 
struck tones that at that moment the nation’s 
dying chief was being removed from his city 
home to the sea, and that the very “ heavens 
were dark ” from some strange, unearthly sym- 
pathy with the closing act of the tragedy. 

Gilbert Kent and his party lost no time in 
dismal forebodings or inquiries. 

They reached the Boston and Maine depot 
only a few minutes after the arrival of the car- 
riage, which had rolled away. Dorrie was in her 
father’s arms in the waiting-room. They now all 
walked down the long platform to the head of the 
train, where they entered a Pullman car — another 
extravagance of Lady Courtley’s, who, as yet. 


354 Boyhood of John Kent. 

certainly had not displayed much of the arrogance 
of riches. This newly appointed steward began 
at once to spend her Master’s money as quietly 
and faithfully as if she had held office for years. 

Mr. Pettingill demurred a little at entering the 
sumptuous car, furtively glancing at his boots, and 
smoothing his docile hair, out of respect for the 
carpet and mirrors, for no one else was in the 
Pullman as yet. 

Meanwhile the omens without grew more 
uncanny and direful in their clammy, silent yel- 
lowness. A rush of wind, or even a clap of 
thunder or glittering sword of lightning would 
have been a relief. The sensation was one of 
smothering. 

As John stood on the platform, the gas-lighted 
depot itself seemed a small section of natural 
day, while out-of-doors, seen through the open end 
of the train-house, looked like a huge, gloomy 
room, which they were about to enter. His 
father stood beside him, tall and silent, gravely 
regarding the strange appearances about him ; 
but his heart, after all, was with the boy, and 
when he spoke, presently, it was not of the 
weather, but of John’s immediate future. 

“ Son, have you thought what you shall do, 
after the summer is over ? ” 


The Yellow Day, 


355 


Not very much, father. About the same as 
I Ve been doing, I suppose ; I ’d like to go to 
school.” 

“ And college } ” 

“ I don’t think so, sir.” 

‘‘What do you want to be, John.? A lawyer 
or a merchant .? ” 

“I think, father, I ’d like to do just what you 
have done. I ’d like to be a carpenter who 
always made straight boxes and tight roofs. Do 
you mind, sir, because I don’t care to be a lawyer, 
or a minister, or anything else .? ” 

“ No, son. What you do is not of great con- 
sequence, so long as it is honorable. How you do 
it is what will be watched. Think these things 
over, my boy, while you are away. When you 
come back, you shall go to school for a time. 
Good-by — take good care of Dorrie, and may 
God take care of you both ! ” 

A few minutes later the train started. Dorrie 
had not traveled by rail since she was old enough 
to remember anything about it, and was now 
greatly excited over the novelty of the motion 
and the scenes, the odd hue of the atmosphere 
only adding one more element of strangeness and 
unreality to the journey. 


356 The Boyhood of John Kent, 

They rolled swiftly out over bridges, from 
which Dorrie had a final glimpse of her loved sea ; 
then across salt marshes, along the base of 
wooded hills, farther and farther away from the 
city. 

Dr. McAllister was constantly on the watch 
for any alarming symptom, and by previous agree- 
ment telegraphed to Gilbert, from a large town a 
little more than half-way to their destination. 

‘‘ All well so far. She bears the journey bravely. 
Keep good courage.'' 

At little country stations where the train 
paused, and hot breaths of air came in through 
the windows, they could hear the crickets chirp- 
ing sleepily, though it was high noon. Grass 
appeared as if colored artificially by Paris green, 
and looked like theatrical foliage. A party of 
gay young girls stood chattering on the platform, 
but their bright ribbons were of dull and ugly 
colors, and their laughing faces were ghastly. 
Harold could not but think, with a shiver, as they 
shrieked with glee at one another’s changed coun- 
tenances, that they resembled a group of the 
newly dead, making fearful merriment over their 
loss of identity. 

Nothing of this, however, appeared in his talk 
with Dorrie. Both he and John endeavored in 


The Yellow Day, 


357 


every way to divert her from any apprehensive 
view of the weather, and made light of it as if it 
were quite the ordinary accompaniment of a rail- 
way journey. 

Mr. Pettingill was himself so absorbed in gaz- 
ing from the window that his sensations remained 
purely subjective, and did not seriously affect either 
the gayety or solemnity of the rest. 

While Dorrie’s train was roaring, hissing, 
^shrieking its way northward, a similar messenger 
bore the President toward Long Branch. Dis- 
patches were thrown from his train at different 
points, and posted at once on bulletins in all the 
large cities of the Union. The train was special, 
and had a clear track the whole way. The vast 
population wandered uneasily to and fro, under 
the yellow sky, unable to work steadily, for the 
darkness and anxiety, wondering whether Garfield 
would reach the end of his journey alive. At ten 
minutes past one, word was flashed throughout 
the length and breadth of the land that the Presi- 
dent had arrived and seemed no worse for the trip. 

At almost precisely the same moment, the 
north-bound train slowed up at East Branch 
station, and Dr. McAllister, carrying Dorrie, led 
the way out to the platform and the coach that 
was waiting for them. 


CHAPTER XXVIL 


MORNING. 

W HEN John awoke, next morning, the sun 
was shining brightly through a dozen tiny 
panes of glass and drawing upon the snow-white 
counterpane a corresponding network with its 
cheerful beams, as different from the dull yellow 
of the day before as gold from copper. 

It was some time before he could remember 
where he was ; the paper on the wall, with its 
pale pink nosegays, the uncarpeted but cleanly 
swept and shining floor, the tall chest of drawers 
looking at him, with all its brass knockers like 
curious eyes; and a funny little washstand, sur- 
mounted by a narrow, old-fashioned looking-glass 
with a crossbar that was so placed as to come 
exactly across the tip of your nose — all these 
were unfamiliar to him. Presently came a sound 
that brought him to his senses : the prolonged 
crow of a cock not far from his room answered 
almost immediately by another chanticleer in the 
distance. 


Morning. 3 59 

He ran to the window and looked out with 
delight welling up in his heart. 

From beneath him a field of rich grass stretched 
away, its myriad blades glistening with dew and 
stirred by fitful, laughing ripples in the morning 
breeze. Beyond was a rim of white birches and 
young oaks, and beyond them the dark, pine 
forest, its fragrant heart and soft shadows promis- 
ing such mysteries of joy as he had never yet 
known. 

How strangely still it all was ! In Boston his 
home had been isolated, but the listening ear 
could always catch the dull, ceaseless roar of 
traffic by day, while the nights were filled with 
ugly voices of their own. 

His window was wide open and he could just 
hear a whisper of the wind cradled among the 
boughs of apple trees and lilac bushes. He longed 
to listen to it among the pines. 

The repeated clarion of the feathered trumpeter 
reminded him that the daylight moments were 
passing, and every one was precious. He must 
launch himself into the clear-flowing stream of 
day; and there were others who needed the aid 
of his strong arm. 

Dr. McAllister found Dorrie too exhausted to 


360 The Boyhood of John Kentr 

leave her bed, but no more feeble than he had 
expected after such unusual effort. He remained 
with the Wilsons three days, and then went up 
to the city, promising to return in a week or two. 
The report he carried to Gilbert was encouraging. 
One thing he was firm about. He would have no 
word concerning the President’s condition brought 
to the house. Dorrie herself was informed of 
this decision and resigned herself to ignorance 
with not a little relief. It was as if a new nurse 
had been called to take charge of the sick room 
in her stead. From that moment she began 
very, very slowly to gain. When the bells were 
tolling' for James A. Garfield, and President 
Arthur was hastily assuming his new duties on 
the nineteenth and twentieth of September, the 
sick girl knew nothing of it ; nor did she learn 
of the brave President’s death till a fortnight 
later. 

Mr. Wilson’s father and mother, now more than 
threescore and ten years old, but hale and hearty , 
still, were somewhat “flustered,” as they confided 
to each other, by the sudden influx of company. 
But they were the soul of hospitality, and fell in 
love with John and Dorrie at once ; Mr. Pettingill 
they mildly liked ; Terry they endured. Mrs. 


Morning. 


36 


Courtley won their hearts, as a matter of course, 
but she would not stay with them more than one 
night, as she saw that they were already over- 
crowded. She made arrangements with a neigh- 
bor, only a few minutes’ walk down the road, and 
remained a week there, spending most of the 
daylight hours with her friends. Then she too 
returned to Boston, bearing messages of love to 
Mr. Kent and Dr. McAllister. 

When the latter returned and was ushered into 
the room where Dorrie was sitting, his face bright- 
ened the moment his eyes fell on her. When he 
came out, half an hour later, and grasped Mr. 
Wilson’s hand, the father read in his light step 
and glad eyes the message, even before the words 
came, “Your daughter will not die.” 

The succeeding days and weeks were full of 
joy. Step by step Dorrie began to move about 
once more, followed by the delighted Terry and, 
during the last hours of his too brief vacation, 
Mr. Pettingill. John was at her side as in the 
dear old days. 

September passed, and golden, hazy October 
stood 

“ Serenely thoughtful, with folded hands.” 

Still John lingered at the old farm, loth to 


362 The Boyhood of John Kent. 

leave his friends, and exchange turf for bricks, 
the unseen incense of the pines for the smoke 
of the city. 

Thomas Wilson found the neighbors willing 
and glad to employ him ; so, sending for his 
tools, he erected a shop beside his father’s house 
and began to grow young again at his work 
among chips and shavings. 

From Edith Yarbrough came a long letter with 
several items of thrilling interest. Before leaving 
the city John had told his father all about his 
queer experience in the mousehole at night and 
the conversation he had overheard. As a result 
a conference had taken place between him and 
Mr. Yarbrough, at the end of which a noted 
detective was called in. 

One week later, Edith wrote, the lost vases 
were recovered. The headquarters of the thieves 
in the junk shop was broken up and much valuable 
property found concealed in various parts of it. 
Hurlburt had managed to get wind of the raid 
and had escaped, together with all the gang 
(there were three of them) except Jagger. He 
was fairly trapped and captured in the secret 
room, and on being locked up, turned state’s 
evidence. The early arrest of one or more of 
his associates was looked for. 


Morning. 


363 


Mr. Kent added to this account, in writing to 
his son, that a rather stout but persistent detect- 
ive had actually wedged himself into the mouse- 
hole and had obtained, through the aperture 
which John had made, sufficient evidence to 
warrant the arrest. It would have been a com- 
fort if Hurlburt had been taken also ; but he 
probably would not breathe Boston air for some 
time, the police remarked. He was in too much 
of a hurry, or in fear of identification, to take 
Whelp with him, and that sagacious beast there- 
upon became a regular fixture of O’ Callaghan’s 
saloon, reposing upon a bed of sawdust and 
depending chiefly for his amusement upon en- 
counters with such rats and bare-legged children 
as chance threw in his way. 

The new East Boston enterprise, on the with- 
drawal of Hurlburt’ s support, quietly failed ; and 
by one of those ironical coincidences, which are 
even more frequent in real life than in fiction, 
was converted into an undertaker’s establish- 
ment ; to my mind an innocent and cheerful 
branch of trade compared with its predecessor. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


CONCLUSION. 

T SMILE as I write the title of this chapter ; 
^ for what do we know of conclusions ? Every 
life story is so interwoven with that of others, and 
overlapped by them, that the new is constantly 
beginning ere the old is at an end. 

I fancy I hear some one say : “ But you have 
been telling us more of Dorrie’s life than of 
John’s.” 

You forget that Dorrie’s life tms John’s. The 
nearer friends are together the more are they one. 
John Kent’s life could not have been told without 
that of his father and Dorothy Wilson. Perhaps 
when I tell you more of Dorrie’s story, as I hope 
I may erelong, you will find, in like ♦manner, por- 
tions of it where the happiness, the welfare, the 
motives, the daily life of her old playmate pre- 
dominate over her . own. 

A few words will suffice, at present, to inform 
you of the whereabouts of some of those friends 

364 


Conclusion. 365 

who were stanchly true to both children in the 
hour of trial and danger. 

Mrs. Courtley, on returning to Boston, bought 
a small house on one of the quiet streets of the 
West End, and at once set about furnishing it, not 
elegantly but comfortably. In this . house she 
invited, with a generous warmth that could not be 
resisted, Mr. Kent, John, and Waldo Pettingill, to 
make their home. 

Mr. Pettingill was so elated by the prospect 
that he had wild dreams of abandoning his busi- 
ness position, and setting up an opposition can- 
factory, — somewhere in the rear of the State 
House, I believe, — but was discouraged therein 
by Mrs. Roberts ; and was finally induced to 
remain by an advance in his salary of fifty cents 
per week — the whole of which advance he 
invested, the first week, in a necktie of change- 
able silk, which he proposed to wear, evenings 
only, in Mrs. Courtley’s presence ; and the vary- 
ing hues of which he firmly believed invested him 
with a deep and mysterious interest in the eyes of 
the fair sex. 

He also purchased a checkerboard and spent 
much time in practicing alone, and playing elabo- 
rate games, Pettingill versus Pettingill. He found 


366 The Boyhood of John Kent, 

it difficult, however, to bring these games to a 
close, as he was always foreseeing his opponent’s 
wily moves, and could not resist the opportunity 
of balking them. 

A surge of business toward her vicinity at 
about this time brought so many new boarders to 
Mrs. Roberts as to fill her house completely, and 
even afford her one or two genteel ” occupants 
of her choicer apartments — thereby rejoicing 
her honest heart. She continued to pay frequent 
visits to her former patrons, on which occasions 
Terry, still an important member of the family, 
was invariably locked out into the back yard, lest 
he should worry her feet, and give the poor soul, 
as she declared he often did, “a palpitation.” 

Among other occasional boarders, it should be 
mentioned, was a sailor — the only one she would 
allow in her house — named William Dawson, 
who now and then spent a night in Boston, and 
who was never weary of recounting to admiring 
audiences in the little parlor the details of John 
Kent’s involuntary voyage to the Cape Verde 
Islands. At Lady Courtley’s house he was 
always an honored guest. 

Dorrie remained with her father and mother 
and the old people on the farm. Her letters and 


Conclusion. 


367 


Martha’s told of renewed strength, of walks 
through field and wood ; and of the faithful min- 
istrations of Dr. McAllister, who by message, 
or, whenever he could leave his home practice for 
a day, by actual word and healing touch, con- 
tinued to lead her back from the valley of 
shadows to the sunlit heights of life and health. 

On the evening after his return to Boston, John 
Kent stood with his father, on the brow of a low 
hill just outside of the city proper. In front was 
a precipice where the ledges had been blasted 
away, leaving for some distance beyond a chaos 
of gray rock. 

The sun had almost set. Not a cloud was in 
the sky, nor did the faintest sigh of breeze fore- 
tell the night or the winter to come. A few 
crimson-leaved vines straggled across the grass at 
their feet, and hung motionless over the brink of 
the cleft rock. Near by, in the branch of an 
aged and gnarled cherry tree, a dozen or more 
sparrows twittered cheerily — their eager inter- 
change of comment almost the only sound of the 
clear October air. 

For some time neither father nor son had 
spoken. Perhaps each felt that uttered word 
would have rather broken than intensified the 


368 The Boyhood of John Kent, 

communion between them. They often stood in 
this way, the boy’s hand nestling in his father’s, 
a word or two at long intervals sufficing to keep 
their thoughts in the same channel. John would 
sometimes shut his eyes, just for the pleasure of 
knowing that his father was there in the dark, and 
that when he opened them he should see him at 
his side. 

On this evening the father was the first to 
speak. They were looking out over half a hun- 
dred roofs, from which the black, sluggish curls 
of smoke rose against the blue depths of the 
eastern sky. 

It ’s a dull place, the city, is it not, my boy — 
after the fields and the pines } ” 

John opened his lips to reply ; then caught his 
breath with delight, and pointed. 

“ Look, father! ” 

The sun’s level rays, finding their way around 
the brow of a little eminence that had kept them 
back, rested full on the dingy roofs of the' houses, 
and even as father and son looked upon them, 
touched the upward curling blurs of smoke, bath- 
ing them in glowing light, until from each humble 
and squalid dwelling arose a breath of rosy mist, 
floating away, transfigured, toward the blue 
heaven. 















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